f  LIBRARY   ^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIfORNIA 

SAN  DIFGO 


DRAMATIZATION 

SELECTIONS    FROM    ENGLISH    CLASSICS 
ADAPTED   IN  DRAMATIC   FORM 


BY 


SARAH   E.   SIMONS 

HEAD    OF    THE    DEPARTMENT    OF    ENGLISH    IN    THE    HIGH    SCHOOLS 
WASHINGTON,    D.    C. 


CLEM   IRWIN   ORR 

INSTBCCTOB    IN    ENGLISH    IN    THE    CENTRAL    HIGH    SCHOOL 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  NEW   YORK 


COPYRIGHT,    1913 
BT   SCOTT,    FOBE3MAN    AND    COMPANr 


r    / 


not 


»^  ^ 


^^ 


To 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  R.  Walton, 

whose  work  in  the 

Dramatic  Interpretation  of  Literature 

has  been  the  inspiration  of  young  students 

in  the  City  of  Washington 

for  many  years, 

we  gratefully  dedicate  this  book. 


PREFACE 

It  is  the  aim  of  this  vohime  to  give  practical  suggestions 
for  the  dramatization  of  high  school  classics.  The  teaching 
experience  of  the  authors  leads  them  to  believe  that  drama- 
tization of  the  literature  studied  is  one  of  the  most  successful 
of  all  devices  for  vitalizing  the  work  of  the  English  class. 
Moreover,  the  imagined  difficulties  in  the  way  of  high  school 
dramatization  vanish  entirely  on  nearer  view  or  become, 
in  the  working  out,  a  stimulus  to  invention. 

The  selections  here  treated  are  familiar  to  students  in 
the  secondary  schools.  The  dramatic  illustrations  offered 
are  type  studies  and  are  intended  as  a  working  basis  for 
teachers  and  pupils  in  developing  similar  exercises.  To 
facilitate  their  use  in  the  classrooni,  they  are  grouped, 
according  to  the  usual  high  school  English  course,  in  four 
parts,  one  for  each  year  respectively;  and  are  published 
independently  in  pamphlet  form  expressly  for  the  con- 
venience of  pupils.  This  grouping  is  necessarily  somewhat 
arbitrary.  Most  of  the  selections  may  be  used  in  any  year, 
irrespective  of  their  place  in  the  series  of  pamphlets.  Their 
purpose  is  to  instruct,  the  idea  of  amusement  and  entertain- 
ment, from  the  nature  of  the  case,  being  wholly  incidental. 

This  book  is  sent  to  high  school  teachers  with  the  earnest 
hope  that  it  may  point  the  way  to  making  the  regular,  not 
the  holiday,  dramatization  of  literature  an  effective  instru- 
ment in  the  teaching  of  English.  Let  us  turn  literature 
into  life  for  the  pupil  and  we  shall  give  him  an  amulet, 
at  whose  magic  touch  new  worlds  arc  opened, — we  shall 
give  him  in  deed  and  in  truth  "that  old  enchanted  Arabian 
grain,  the  Sesame,  which  opens  doors; — doors,  not  of 
robbers',  but  of  Kings'  Treasuries." 

S.  E.  S. 

C.  I.  o. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Page 
Preface      5 

PURPOSE   AND    METHOD 

The  PsYcnoLOGY  of  Dramatization 9 

The  Pedagogy  of  Dramatization 11 

Types  of  Dramatization 14 

Practical  Suggestions: 

A.  Ways  and  Means  of  Dramatizing  the  Text 15 

B.  The  Problem  of  Staging 19 

I.     Analysis  of  the  Problem 19 

II.     Suggestions  for  Staging 22 

(a)  Setting 22 

(6)   Costuming 27 

(c)  Lights 29 

(d)  Characters 31 

Suggestions  for  Further  Dramatization 32 

A.  The  Novel 33 

B.  The  Short  Story 39 

C.  The  Epic 43 

D.  The  Ballad 54 

Texts: 

I.     For  Specimen  Dramatizations  60 

II.     For  Further  Suggestions 61 

Bibliography: 

Psychology  and  Pedagogy  of  Dramatization 62 

Practical  Illustrations 62 

Stage  Setting  and  Costuming 63 

Music , 64 

7 


8  Dramatization 

SPECIMEN   DRAMATIZATIONS 
FIRST   YEAR 

(The  selections  for  each  year's  work  are  paged  as  a  separate  unit.) 

Treasure  Island 7 

IVANROE 23 

Robin  Hoou   Ballads 47 

Episodes  From  The  Odyssey 58 

Tableaux  from  The  Odyssey 69 

Feathertop:  A  Moralized  Legend 80 

SECOND    YEAR 

The  Iliad         7 

The  Last  of  the  Mohicans 19 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities 47 

David  Swan:     A  Fantasy   .    ' 74 

Kidnapped 78 

The  Adventure  of  My  Aunt 87 

THIRD   YEAR 

SOHRAB    AND    RuSTUM 7 

Silas  Marner 15 

Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn .  42 

The  Purloined  Letter 59 

A  Spring  Fantasy 75 

FOURTH   YEAR 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield 7 

The  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales 16 

The  Idylls  of  the  King: 

Gareth  and  Lynette 37 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 52 

Henry  Esmond 58 

CoMus 75 


PURPOSE  AND  METHOD 


THE   PSYCHOLOGY   OF   DRAMATIZATION 

Primitive  man  and  the  child  are  essentially  dramatic. 
Experiences  in  the  life  of  the  race  are  acted  out  by  the  bard 
as  he  sings  of  the  deeds  of  the  great  man  of  the  tribe,  or  by 
the  braves  as  they  circle  in  the  war  dance  round  the  camp 
fire.  Just  so  the  child  by  gesture  and  look  and  pose  acts 
out  his  own  experiences. 

Says  Professor  Grosser  "The  peculiar  feature  of  the 
drama  is  the  representation  of  an  event  simultaneously 
by  speech  and  mimicry.  In  this  sense  nearly  every  prim- 
itive tale  is  a  drama,  for  the  teller  is  not  simply  relating 
history,  but  he  enlivens  his  words  with  appropriate  into- 
nations and  gestures.  .  .  .  Children  and  primitive 
peoples  arc  unable  to  make  any  narration  without  accom- 
panying it  with  the  appropriate  demeanor  and  play  of 
gesture."  The  impulse  to  impersonate  animate  or  inanimate 
objects, — it  is  immaterial  which, — is  second  nature  to  the 
young  of  all  races  and  cultures. 

Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  in  his  Study  of  the  Drama,  cites 
two  amusing  illustrations  of  this  impulse  from  the  play  of 
American  children.  The  first  is  the  case  of  three  little  boys 
"playing  automobile."  The  eldest  was  the  chauffeur, 
the  next  was  the  machine  itself,  while  the  baby  in  the  rear 
represented  the  lingering  odor  of  gasoline.  The  other 
anecdote  describes  the  "offering  up  of  Isaac"  by  two  little 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  aged  respectively  three  and  four 
years.  "They  were  found  in  the  ruins  of  an  old  house," 
says  Mr.  Matthews,  "and  in  a  sad  voice  the  boy  explained 


10  Dramatization 

that  they  were  'ofTcring  up  little  Isaac'  A  broken  toy  was 
Isaac.  A  brick  under  a  bush  was  the  ram.  They  told 
how  they  had  built  a  fire  under  Isaac,  admitting  at  once- 
that  the  fire  was  only  make-believe.  And  when  they  were 
asked,  'Who  was  Abraham?'  the  little  girl  promptly 
answered,  'We  was.'  " 

Many  of  the  games  of  our  children  are  indeed  neither 
more  nor  less  than  crude  dramas  imitating  the  life  of 
grownups.  Wordsworth  in  his  Intimations  of  Immortality 
expresses  this  truth: 

"Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  laid  aside 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  'humorous  stage' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation." 

The  children  of  the  older  civilizations  of  China  and 
Japan,  as  well  as  the  children  of  the  American  Indian,  the 
Eskimo,  and  the  Bushman  of  Australia,  delight  in  imper- 


Purpose  and  Method  11 

sonating  the  hero  of  their  special  tradition  and  in  imitating 
in  their  play  the  life  about  them.  The  constructive  imag- 
ination is  the  glory  of  childhood.  The  province  of  make- 
believe  is  the  particular  territory  of  the  child. 

THE   PEDAGOGY  OF  DRAMATIZATION 

Dramatic  presentation  as  a  vehicle  for  instruction  was 
utilized  as  far  back  as  the  history  of  culture  extends.  The 
pagan  priest  and  the  Christian  Church  father  seized  upon 
the  love  of  the  dramatic  innate  in  human  nature  and  made 
it  serve  their  special  ends.  Through  the  dramatic  appeal 
each  taught  his  own  peculiar  cult  or  religion.  The  Bacchic 
festival  of  song  and  dance  was  the  expression  of  the  worship 
of  Bacchus,  and  the  Mystery  and  the  Miracle  play  taught 
the  sacred  story  of  Christ  and  the  saints.  The  religious 
idea  yielded  gradually  to  the  popular  desire  for  amusement; 
the  holy  day  became  the  holiday. 

There  has  been  incidental  use  of  the  drama  as  a  means  of 
instruction  in  the  schools  ever  since  there  have  been  schools. 
In  England,  companies  of  boy  actors  were  at  an  early  date 
connected  with  the  great  public  schools.  Among  them 
were  the  famous  "Boj's  of  the  Grammar  School  at  West- 
minster," and  the  "Children  of  Paul's."  "The  influences 
which  produced  these  [companies],"  says  Alexander  F. 
Chamberlain,  "survives  and  flourishes  today  in  the  fondness 
of  high  school  pupils  and  university  students  for  dramatic 
performances."  Neither  was  the  drama  entirely  neglected  in 
the  early  American  schools,  if  we  may  judge  by  a  curious  old 
volume  by  one  Charles  Stearns,  preceptor  of  the  Liberal 
School  at  Lincoln,  Massachusetts,  entitled  Dramatic 
Dialogues  for  Use  iii  the  Schools,  published  in  1798.  The 
author  of  this  volume  insists  upon  the  pedagogical  and 
ethical  value  of  dramatic  i)resentatioii.     In  the  Introduction 


12  Dramatization 

he  says:  "The  rudest  nymphs  and  swains  by  practicing 
on  rhetoric  will  soon  acquire  polite  manners,  for  they  will 
often  personate  the  most  polite  character.  And  though  the 
surly  majesty  of  some  male  despots  among  us  may  envy 
the  graces  of  rhetoric  to  women,  because  they  feel  them- 
selves already  outdone  by  women  in  every  other  excellence; 
yet  it  is  certain  that  a  clear,  genteel  manner  of  expressing 
themselves  is  a  vast  advantage  to  women  in  forming  that 
important  alliance  which  is  to  last  through  life."  Each 
play  or  dramatic  dialogue  included  in  the  volume  is  intended 
to  teach  some  virtue  as  is  plainly  indicated  on  the  title  page, 
for  instance:  The  Woman  of  Honour  {Goodness  of  heart  and 
veracity  of  speech);  The  Mother  of  a  Family  (Patience); 
The  Gamester  {Mildness  of  temper);  The  Male  Coquette 
(Absurdity  of  lying  and  hypocrisy);  Roncesevalles  (Self 
government) . 

Not  until  today,  however,  under  the  teachings  of  the 
new  psychology,  has  any  attempt  been  made  to  use  the 
dramatic  instinct  of  the  child  in  a  definite,  systematic 
way  as  an  aid  in  the  teaching  of  English  literature.  We 
now  recognize  that  the  child's  instincts  and  innate  ten- 
dencies are  to  be  reckoned  with,  that  they  may  indeed 
serve  as  guides  or  as  points  of  departure  in  our  educative 
process.  At  the  high  school  age  the  dramatic  and  the 
imitative  instincts  are  still  vital  forces  in  the  life  of  the 
boy  and  girl.  Dramatization,  which  appeals  to  both  the 
dramatic  and  the  imitative  instincts  is  therefore  an  excel- 
lent device  for  the  teaching  of  literature.  In  its  power  to 
rouse  interest,  to  stir  the  imagination,  to  create  illusion, 
to  induce  appreciation  of  the  masterpiece,  and  thus  to 
quicken  a  love  for  literature,  dramatization  has  no  equal. 
For  literature  is  life,  the  life  of  other  times  and  peoples, — 
real  or  fantastic, — and  life  is  action.  Whatever  helps 
the  boy  to  visualize  the  life  of  other  days  will  help  him 


Purpose  and  Method  13 

to  vitalize  the  people  of  those  days.  Dramatization 
makes  the  past,  present;  the  then,  now,  gives  us  a  mimic 
world,  actually  turns  literature  into  life.  Hence  the 
dramatic  appeal  is  perhaps  the  most  compelling  in  the 
teaching  of  certain  types  of  masterpieces.  The  dramatiz- 
ation of  any  bit  of  literature  "is  the  best  possible  return 
which  the  children  can  make  of  their  literary  training 
and  at  the  same  time  the  best  possible  means  of  secur- 
ing their  apprehension  of  the  story  they  use,"  says 
Porter  Landor  MacClintock  in  Literature  in  the  Elementary 
School. 

Much  is  being  done  today  in  the  way  of  dramatic 
treatment  of  literature  in  the  elementary  schools,  but  much 
remains  yet  to  do.  The  custom  of  having  the  child  act 
out  his  little  songs  and  stories  in  the  first  few  grades  is 
rather  widespread.  But  as  he  progresses  from  grade  to 
grade,  less  and  less  dramatic  work  is  done,  until,  when  he 
reaches  the  high  school,  there  is  scarcely  any  systematic 
attempt  to  relate  such  work  to  the  study  of  literature.  It 
is  true  that  many  high  schools  have  dramatic  associations 
and  give  creditable  performances  during  the  year  for  the 
purpose  of  entertainment,  but  it  is  also  true  that  very  few 
high  schools  are  doing  dramatic  work  in  connection  with  the 
study  of  literature.  The  notable  exception  of  the  Ethical 
Culture  School  of  New  York  City,  of  course,  comes  to  mind, 
and  there  are  certain  public  high  schools  scattered  here  and 
there  over  the  United  States  where  something  is  being 
done  along  this  line.  Just  now,  however,  we  need  an  organ- 
ized correlation  of  the  dramatic  and  the  literary  in  our 
English  courses,  and  it  is  the  aim  of  this  book  to  show 
that  such  correlation  is  not  only  possible  but  is  most  effective 
in  the  teaching  of  English.  President  G.  Stanley  Hall  of 
Clark  University  says : "  A  recent  writer  demands  a  theater  in 
every  high  school,  where  young  people  should  be  encouraged 


14  Dramatization 

to  read  and  sometimes  act  parts,  and  to  assume  in  fancy 
the  roles  of  the  characters  of  great  men."  While  we  can 
hardly  hope  for  "a  theater  in  every  high  school"  as  yet, 
still,  even  out  of  very  crude  conditions,  ways  and  means 
may  be  devised  for  making  both  possible  and  effective, 
dramatic  presentations  of  scenes  from  the  literature  studied. 


TYPES  OF   DRAMATIZATION 

As  used  in  this  volume,  the  term  dramatization  means 
not  only  the  recasting  of  the  text  in  the  form  of  dialogue, 
but  also  and  always  the  presentation  of  the  dramatic 
version  of  the  scene  or  incident.  This  book  illustrates 
several  kinds  of  dramatic  treatment: 

First,  and  simplest,  the  dramatic  dialogue,  dealing  with 
separate  situations  and  making  no  attempt  to  present  a 
dramatic  unit,  as  in  the  adaptations  from  Kidnapped. 

Second,  the  dramatization  of  various  situations  chosen 
from  the  classic,  combined  in  such  a  way  as  to  form  a 
single  dramatic  unit  with  a  well  defined  climax.  The 
illustrations  of  this  type  are  the  scenes  from  Treasure 
Island,  Silas  Marner,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Ivanhoe, 
A  Tale  of  Tioo  Cities,  Henry  Esmond,  Solirab  and  Rustum, 
Lancelot  and  Elaine,  the  Iliad,  and  the  Odyssey,— -hy  far  the 
greater  number  of  the  selections  dramatized. 

Third,  the  dramatization  of  the  whole  story,  or  the 
making  of  a  drama  writ  small,  as  in  the  short  stories  here 
treated,  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads,  and  Gareth  and  Lynette. 

Fourth,  the  dramatization  of  the  whole  plot  through  the 
selection  from  the  novel  of  leading  scenes  which  are  knit 
together  by  means  of  a  new  character,  acting  as  a  kind  of 
Chorus.  He  presents  the  situation  at  the  opening  of  the 
first   scene,    makes    the    connection    between    scenes,    and 


Purpose  and  Method  15 

delivers  the  epilogue.     The  dramatic  treatment  of  Tlie  Last 
oj  the  Mohicans  illustrates  this  type. 

Fifth,  the  dramatic  reading  visualized  through  the 
tableau  or  living-picture  representation  of  the  text.  Here, 
a  reader  dressed  in  a  costume  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  the  scene  presented,  but  standing  far  to  one  side  of  the 
stage,  out  of  the  picture,  recites  or  reads  the  lines  descriptive 
of  the  tableau.  In  the  case  of  a  moving-picture  presen- 
tation, the  lines  are  read  after  the  curtain  rises  on  the  scene, 
but  when  tableaux  are  given,  part  of  the  reading  takes 
place  before  the  curtain  rises,  because  of  the  difficulty  of 
retaining  fixed  positions  for  any  considerable  length  of 
time.  Scenes  from  the  following  classics  are  worked  out 
after  this  fashion:  the  Odyssey,  Chaucer's  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  and  Longfellow's  Prelude  to  the  Tales  of 
a  Wayside  Inn.  The  same  method  is  ai)plied  to  the  group 
of  lyrics  which  are  woven  into  a  Spring  Fantasy,  preserving 
in  dramatic  form  the  dominant  note  and  the  true  spirit  of 
the  lyric. 

PRACTICAL   SUGGESTIONS 

A.     WAYS   AND   MEANS   OF   DRAMATIZING   THE   TEXT 

In  turning  a  classic  into  dramatic  form,  as  little  deviation 
from  the  original  as  possible  should  be  made.  The  new 
form,  however,  compels,  at  times,  changes  in  the  text.  In 
every  adaptation  contained  in  this  book,  the  integrity  of 
the  masterpiece  has  been  reverently  guarded.  Changes 
occur  only  when  demanded  by  the  nature  of  the  case. 

The  keynote  of  dramatic  work  for  the  high  school  should 
be  simplicity.  Consideration  should  be  given  to  the  limi- 
tations of  the  ordinary  high  school  in  the  matter  of  stage 
equi{)ment.  It  should  be  the  unvarying  aim  to  create 
the  illusion  by  the  simplest  possible  means. 


1  (J  Dramatization 

The  following'  hints  on  method  may  be  useful  to  teachers 
desiring  to  dramatize  certain  bits  of  literature  themselves 
or  fo  have  pupils  undertake  such  exercises.  They  are 
based  on  the  experience  of  the  writers. 

First,  as  to  choice  of  material  for  dramatic  treatment: 
Except  in  the  case  of  the  dramatic  dialogue,  care  should  be 
taken  to  see  that  the  scene  or  group  of  scenes  chosen  from 
the  novel  or  poem  represents  a  unit  of  thought  in  itself, 
practically  independent  of  the  rest  of  the  story;  that  the 
unit  selected  is  essentially  dramatic;  and  that  it  is  adapted 
to  high  school  presentation.  Such  scenes,  for  example,  as 
the  fight  in  the  round-house  in  Kidnapped,  the  slaughter 
of  the  suitors  in  the  Odyssey,  the  tournament  in  Ivanhoe, 
and  the  diamond  joust  in  Lancelot  and  Elaine  cannot  be 
considered,  although  they  are  the  most  strikingly  dramatic 
situations  in  the  several  masterpieces  in  which  they  occur. 

Next,  as  to  ways  and  means  of  working  up  the  selections : 
Long  speeches  should  sometimes  be  broken  by  the  inter- 
polation of  new  speeches;  at  other  times  they  should  merely 
be  cut.  For  instance,  in  the  dramatization  from  Sohrab  and 
Rust  ion,  the  long  speech  of  Peran-Wisa  in  the  original, 
lines  G5  through  93,  is  broken  by  interpolating  a  three-line 
speech  for  Sohrab  and  is  cut  by  the  omission  of  lines  79 
through  85. 

Scenes  and  incidents  should  occasionallj'  be  shifted  to 
suit  the  conditions  of  high  school  presentation.  Thus,  in 
the  selection  from  Treasure  Island,  the  conference  between 
Doctor  Livesey  and  Jim,  which  in  the  story  takes  place  out- 
side the  block-house,  occurs  within,  to  prevent  change  of 
setting.  In  the  dramatization  from  Henry  Esmond,  based 
on  chaps,  vii  and  viii.  Book  II,  and  covering  three  days 
in  the  original,  the  incidents  of  the  second  and  third  days 
are  transferred  to  the  first. 

Expository    and    descriptive    passages    must    often    be 


Purpose  and  Method  17 

changed  to  direct  discourse.  In  the  study  from  Book  I 
of  the  Iliad,  part  of  the  speech  of  Calchas  is  made  up 
from  lines  of  the  original,  which  are  explanatory  in 
character. 

New  characters  may  at  times  be  introduced  to  enliven 
a  situation  or  to  improve  a  stage  picture.  In  the  drama- 
tization of  the  ballad,  Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale,  a 
number  of  bridal  attendants  are  introduced  in  order  to 
present  a  picturesque  wedding  scene  and  to  make  possible 
a  merry  dance  at  the  end. 

Occasionally  the  introduction  of  a  new  character  to 
act  as  the  Chorus  offers  an  effective  means  of  unifying  a 
series  of  scenes  chosen  from  a  novel  and  of  making  the  con- 
nection between  them  clear.  The  character  of  the  Chorus 
should  be  in  keeping  with  the  story.  His  lines — the  pro- 
logue, ei)ilogue,  and  interludes — may  be  written  in  verse  to 
make  his  part  the  more  distinctive.  A  good  example  of 
this  type  of  dramatization  is  offered  in  this  volume.  In  the 
scenes  from  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  the  j)art  of  the  Chorus 
is  taken  by  The  Spirit  of  the  Mohicans;  his  lines  are  written 
in  the  meter  of  Longfellow's  Hiawatha. 

A  speech  should  sometimes  be  transferred  from  one 
character  to  another.  For  example,  the  question  of  the 
King  addressed  to  Gareth,  in  Tennyson's  Gareth  and  Lynette, 

But  wherefore  ivould  ye  men  should  wonder  at  you? 

is  transferred,  in  the  dramatic  study  from  this  Idyll,  scene 
ii,  to  Lancelot,  and  addressed  to  the  King  thus: 

But  wherefore  would  he  men  should  wonder  at  him? 

In  the  dramatic  treatment  of  the  poem,  lines  or  stanzas 
from  which  descriptive  or  expository  elements  have  been 
omitted  must  often  be  rewritten.  Thus  in  the  dramatiz- 
ation of  Gareth  and  Lynette  the  opening  line  of  Gareth's 
soliloquy  which  in  the  poem  reads, 


18  Dramatization 

"Iloro  he  loent  down"  said  Gareth,  "as  a  false  knight'^ 
is  changed  to 

How  he  went  down,  that  slender- shafted  Pine. 

In  the  dramatization  of  the  Robin  Hood  ballad,  Robin 
Hood  and  Little  Johii,  the  opening  stanza  is  based  on  the 
seventh  in  the  original.  The  changes  made  can  be  seen  by 
quoting  the  two: 

They  happened  to  meet  on  a  long  narrov)  bridge. 
And  neither  of  them  icoidd  give  way; 
Quoth  bold  Robin  Hood,  and  sturdily  stood, 
"III  shew  you  right  Nottingham  play.'"   (Original) 
Back,  stranger!     'Tis  Robin  that  makes  the  command 
This  instant,  back!  out  of  my  icay! 
I'm  bold  Robin  Hood,  I 'II  not  be  withstood, 
I'll  shew  you  right  Nottingham  play!  (Adaptation) 

Incomplete  or  broken  lines  may,  however,  often  be  used 
for  dramatic  effect,  as  for  instance  in  scene  i  of  Gareth  and 
Lynette, 

Yea,  Mother      .      .      .      May  I  then     . 

Sometimes  several  lines  of  blank  verse  or  whole  stanzas 
must  be  invented.  Illustrations  in  point  are  the  three-line 
speech  of  Sohrab  already  referred  to  above,  the  last  stanza 
of  The  Baptism  of  Little  John  and  most  of  the  speeches 
in  scene  ii  of  the  Chaucer  dramatization. 

In  the  dramatic  reading  accompanied  by  the  tableau, 
the  following  points  should  be  borne  in  mind.  Since  the 
success  of  this  particular  type  of  dramatization  depends  in  a 
great  measure  upon  the  reading,  the  greatest  care  should  be 
exercised  in  the  choice  of  readers;  the  selection  should 
not  be  too  long;  it  should  be  chosen  primarily  with  a  vie^^ 
to  tableau  effect;  and  it  should  meet  the  conditions  of  high 
school  equipment  for  dramatic  productions. 


Purpose  and  Method  19 


B.     THE  PROBLEM  OF  STAODTQ 
I.     Analysis  of  the  Problem 

The  primary  purpose  of  the  dramatic  work  set  forth 
in  these  pages  is,  at  every  point,  the  interpretation  of  the 
masterpieces  of  hterature.  This  fundamental  idea  must 
not  be  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  that  dramatization  as  defined  above  includes  not  only 
the  molding  of  the  narrative  as  a  whole  or  in  part,  into  the 
shape  of  a  drama,  but  also  and  always,  the  acting  of  the 
adaptation  in  the  classroom  or  assembly  hall.  There  is 
little  danger  of  wandering  far  afield  in  the  first  undertaking. 
But  the  next  stc]),  the  presentation  of  the  remodeled  episode 
or  story,  must  be  carefully  taken,  for  the  path  will  prove  to 
be  full  of  pitfalls  unless  the  goal  is  kept  constantly  in  view. 
The  means  must  not  be  confused  with  the  end  itself.  If 
this  new  tool,  the  presentation  of  the  dramatic  portions  of 
the  classic,  is  used  wisely,  it  may  prove  an  invaluable  aid 
in  the  unearthing  of  the  "treasures  hidden  in  books";  it 
may,  indeed,  be  the  "Sesame"  to  many  a  high  school  boy 
or  girl  who  has  plodded  along  the  highway  of  literature 
with  hitherto  unawakened  mind  and  heart. 

But  the  danger  in  the  handling  of  the  tool  is  that  the 
glitter  of  its  polished  surface  (for  it  is  an  exceedingly 
attractive  implement)  may  distract  the  mind  from  the 
purpose  for  which  it  was  fashioned — to  delve  into  the  rich 
veins  of  the  treasures  found  in  books,  and  bring  forth  the 
gold — the  messages  of  the  true  Kings  of  Literature. 
The  heading  of  this  division  of  Practical  Suggestions  for 
the  dramatization  of  high  school  classics  may  be  a  mis- 
leading guide  unless  its  use  is  explained.  The  Problem 
of  Staging  resolves  itself  into  the  problem  of  dramatic 
presentation    under   high   school   conditions,    whether   the 


20  Dramatization 

stage  is  the  floor  of  a  classroom  or  the  more  pretentious 
platform  of  a  liigli  school  assembly  hall. 

If  the  student  brought  to  the  high  school  the  imagi- 
nation which  is  his  own  by  right  at  this  period  of  his  devel- 
opment, the  Utopia  of  high  school  dramatic  production 
could  be  realized.  No  accessories  would  then  be  needed 
to  the  vital  means  for  the  interpretation  of  literature, 
namely,  voice,  gesture,  and  action.  But  oftentimes  the 
Elizabethan  Age  of  the  child's  imagination  is  past  when 
he  reaches  the  high  school.  Some  outward  stimulus  is 
therefore  required  to  quicken  into  flame  his  smoldering 
fancy. 

Such  a  stimulus  is  afforded  by  extremely  simple  stage 
settings  and  costumes,  both  in  classroom  presentations  of 
dramatic  dialogues  and  short  scenes,  and  in  the  more 
ambitious  dramatizations  presented  in  the  auditorium. 
The  action,  setting,  and  costuming  should  be  so  nicely 
adjusted  to  their  use  as  means  of  interpretation,  that  the 
audience  will  applaud  the  play  or  scene  as  a  finely  welded 
whole,  and  not  a  costume  here,  or  a  bit  of  painted  scenery 
there.  Elaborate  painted  scenery  may  do  credit  to  the  art 
department  of  a  high  school,  but  it  is  aside  from  the  purpose 
of  interpretative  dramatic  work  if  it  thrusts  itself  into  the 
foreground,  usurping  the  place  of  the  more  important  aids 
to  interpretation,  after  the  manner  of  the  clowns  whom 
Hamlet  denounces  for  "themselves  laughing  to  set  on  some 
quantity  of  barren  spectators  to  laugh  too;  though  in  the 
meantime  some  necessary  questions  of  the  play  be  then 
to  be  considered." 

Hence,  all  so-called  theatrical  effects  should  be  studiously 
avoided  in  high  school  work  of  this  character.  Paint  and 
powder,  the  wig  and  the  mask,  should  be  rarely  resorted  to 
for  creating  the  illusion.  The  chief  excuse  for  their  employ- 
ment is  the  necessity  for  historical  accuracy  of  detail,  in 


Purpose  and  Method  21 

such  scenes  as  those  from  Henry  Esmond  picturing 
life  in  the  eighteenth  century  when  patches,  powder,  and 
wigs  for  men  and  women  were  characteristic  features  of 
dress.  For  the  stage  productions  in  liigh  schools  equipped 
with  footlights,  a  little  make-up  may  be  considered  neces- 
sary to  avoid  a  ghastly  appearance  of  faces.  Another  case 
in  which  the  use  of  make-up  may  be  justifiable  is  when  the 
text  itself  demands  it.  This  is  rare,  however.  A  line  here, 
another  there,  to  change  the  boy  or  girl  into  a  more  realistic 
semblance  of  the  older  man  or  woman  may  help  the  imag- 
ination. But  use  of  the  make-up  box  should  be  discouraged 
as  far  as  may  be,  in  the  production  of  high  school  plays. 

Thus  far,  the  question  of  how  to  stage  a  high  school 
drama  in  little,  consistently  with  the  idea  of  keeping  the 
accessories  in  correct  relation  to  the  vital  means  of  dramatic 
interpretation,  has  been  answered  negatively.  The  theme 
has  been.  What  not  to  do.  The  suggestions  that  follow  are 
intended  to  answer  the  question  directly  and  concretely, 
as  far  as  may  be  done  in  a  Avork  of  this  character. 

Here  again,  the  keynote  should  be  simplicity.  The 
practical  experience  of  the  authors  has  been  in  a  school  with 
no  equipment  for  dramatic  work  except  a  fair-sized  stage, 
with  green  denim  front,  side,  and  rear  curtains,  so  arranged 
as  to  afford  a  number  of  exits.  These  dramatizations  are 
intended  to  meet  similar  conditions  in  other  high  schools 
but  are  flexible  enough  to  adapt  themselves  to  any  con- 
ditions, from  the  most  crudely,  to  the  most  completely 
equipped  high  school  stage.  Since  classrooms  and  assembly 
hall  platforms  differ  widely  in  the  number  and  in  the  relative 
positions  of  exits,  as  well  as  in  the  size  and  shape  of  the  floor 
space  available  for  the  action,  it  is  useless  to  make  the  stage 
directions  for  the  dramatization  specific.  The  grouping  of 
characters  for  a  good  stage  picture  and  the  selection  of 
approximate  exits  and  entrances  must  be  determined  by 


22  Dramatization 

the  exigencies    of    tlie    situation    in    the    individual    high 
school. 

Again  it  must  be  remembered  that  these  scenes  are 
not  treated  from  the  angle  of  the  theatrical  stage.  The 
stage  directions  are  in  accord  with  the  purpose  of  the  work 
throughout,  which  is  educative,  not  spectacular  dramatic 
productions.  Even  in  high  schools  which  are  provided 
with  every  facility  for  scenic  effects,  a  reversion  to  the 
primitive  might  be  of  great  value.  There  is  no  perfor- 
mance more  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  the  entire  school 
population  than  a  really  home-made  one.  No  apology 
should  therefore  be  made  for  the  use  of  the  most  primitive 
devices  which  may  aid  in  interpreting  the  literary  master- 
piece. In  high  schools  equipped  with  a  good  art  depart- 
ment, such  simple  scenery  as  may  be  needed  can  be  made  by 
pupils  under  the  direction  of  the  art  teachers.  This 
department  may  also  assist  materially  in  the  designing  of 
costumes.  But,  as  has  already  been  said,  such  work  must 
not  be  too  ambitious. 

II.     Suggestions  for  Staging 

(a)   Setting 

The  first  practical  detail  of  staging  to  be  considered  is  the 
setting.  This  implies  the  assembly  hall  performance,  as  the 
classroom  dramatic  exposition  must  leave  the  matter  of 
scenery  wholly  to  the  imagination,  though  there  may  be 
a  hint  of  costuming,  and  ready-to-hand  properties  may  be 
utilized.  Since  an  out-of-door  setting  may  be  produced 
most  effectively  and  with  the  least  outlay  of  time,  energy, 
and  money,  these  selections  are  drawn  largely  from  out-of- 
door  scenes  in  the  texts  used,  or  from  scenes  readily  adapted 
to  open  air  treatment.     When  interiors  have  been  chosen, 


Purpose  a? id  Method  23 

they  are  for  the  most  part  very  simple:  for  example  the 
crude  block-house  in  Treasure  Island;  the  kitchen  of  the 
Rainbow  Tavern,  and  Silas  IMarner's  cottage  in  Silas 
Marner;  and  the  cell  of  the  Clerk  of  Copnianhurst  in 
Ivanhoe.  Even  the  scenes  which  may  seem  to  require  a 
more  elaborate  setting  will  admit  of  simj)le  treatment  for 
the  present  purpose. 

A  glance  through  the  table  of  contents  will  show  the 
various  types  of  out-of-door  scenes.  There  is  first  the  bare, 
rugged  Scottish  heath.  In  all  high  schools  except  those 
in  the  heart  of  the  largest  cities,  the  country  is  near  enough 
to  make  possible  the  decoration  of  the  stage  for  this  and 
other  scenes,  with  branches  of  trees  of  sufficient  size.  By 
the  use  of  rear  and  side  curtains  and  of  high  stools,  or  chairs 
inverted  and  covered  with  green  denim  or  other  inexpensive 
material,  the  branches  may  be  arranged  so  as  to  create  the 
desired  effect.  In  the  scenes  from  Kidiiapped  and  in  most 
of  the  scenes  in  the  woods,  the  action  must  take  place  in 
an  open  space,  so  that  it  is  necessary  only  to  suggest  the 
trees  by  a  background  of  foliage.  Inverted  boxes  and  low 
stools  draped  with  brown  or  dull  green  denim  will  answer 
for  rocks.  Shrubs,  here  and  there,  in  some  of  the  scenes 
may  be  needed.     These  are  easily  obtained. 

In  the  dramatization  from  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  a  green 
floor  covering  will  suggest  the  "smooth-shaven  green." 
The  path  toward  the  cottage,  which  is  supposed  to  be  just 
out  of  sight,  should  be  left  bare,  with  potted  flowers  on 
either  side.  It  may  be  separated  from  the  lawn  by  a  rustic 
gate  at  the  rear-center  of  the  stage,  made  from  the  trimmed 
branches  of  trees,  the  curtains  being  drawn  apart  to  allow 
a  glimpse  of  the  roughly  ])ainted  cottage  in  perspective. 
But  gate,  path,  and  vista  may  be  omitted  in  the  staging  of 
this  scene,  a  background  of  foliage  giving  the  necessary 
hint. 


24  Dramatization 

The  out-of-door  scene  from  Sohrab  and  Rustum  must 
have  an  oriental  touch.  As  the  stage  is  in  semi-darkness,  a 
somber  background  with  a  sky  line  suggestive  of  the  tops 
of  a  multitude  of  tents  is  all  that  is  needed.  The  desert 
may  be  realistically  represented  by  strewing  white  sand 
about  the  floor.  A  painted  background  picturing  the 
Oxus  winding  into  the  distance  would  be  effective,  but  is 
not  essential. 

The  forest  scenery  for  the  Robin  Hood  Ballads  does  not 
differ  materially  from  that  already  suggested.  The  device 
for  making  the  fire  here  is  the  same  as  later  described  for 
the  indoor  scenes.  For  Gareth  and  Lynette,  Lancelot  and 
Elaine,  the  Spring  Fantasy,  and  U Allegro,  a  spring  land- 
scape is  the  ideal  background. 

If  these  classics  are  read  in  the  springtime,  and  the  school 
yard  is  not  a  thing  of  brick  and  mortar,  they  may  be  given, 
like  the  Ben  Greet  and  Coburn  plays,  out  of  doors.  Little 
staging  will  then  be  necessary.  The  fresh  air,  and  the 
young  green  of  the  trees  and  grass  will  lend  the  required 
atmosphere. 

But  the  effect  of  a  spring  landscape  may  be  produced  with 
comparatively  little  labor  indoors.  If  the  season  permits, 
the  stage  can  be  turned  into  a  bower  by  means  of  quantities 
of  vines,  flowers,  and  plants,  arranged  as  the  needs  of  the 
play  or  scene  suggest;  or  artificial  flowers,  just  as  good  for 
stage  purposes,  can  be  used.  Many  girls  know,  or  can 
easily  learn,  how  to  make  flowers  such  as  sweet-peas,  the 
simplest  paper  flower  to  imitate  and  very  decorative  when 
strung  on  long  twisted  stems  of  green  crepe  paper.  The 
flowers  themselves  are  made  of  plain  tissue  paper  cut  into 
two  ovals,  one  white,  the  other  any  color  desired, — pink, 
yellow,  or  lavender.  The  colored  oval  is  placed  on  top 
of  the  white  oval,  a  small  hole  is  cut  in  the  center,  the  stem 
inserted,  and  by  crushing  the  ovals  in  the  center  against 


Purpose  and  Method  25 

the  stem,  and  giving  the  whole  a  twist,  the  sweet-pea  is 
produced.  For  a  relatively  small  outlay  of  time  and 
money,  a  large  quantity  of  such  flowers  can  be  made  by  an 
organized  band  of  girls,  working  under  the  direction  of  one 
person  who  knows  the  art  of  flower-making  in  its  simplest 
forms.  Experience  shows  that  girls  enjoy  such  work  and 
that  the  occasion  may  be  made  a  pleasant  one.  These 
flowers,  supplemented  by  plants,  will  make  an  attractive 
setting. 

The  same  general  scheme,  with  the  substitution  of 
autumn  tints  for  the  colors  of  spring,  will  serve  for  the 
pictures  from  //  Penseroso.  In  the  out-of-door  scene  from 
the  Odyssey,  the  surroundings  of  the  grotto  may  be  sug- 
gested by  vines  and  flowers  fastened  to  the  side  and  rear 
curtains,  a  green  floor  covering,  as  in  the  study  from  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  plants  scattered  here  and  there. 
The  opening  into  the  grotto  may  be  represented  by  drawing 
apart  the  rear  curtains  in  the  center,  showing  glimpses  of  a 
Greek  interior,  hints  for  which  are  given  in  the  setting  for 
the  Odyssey  tableaux.  If  painted  scenery  is  a  possibility, 
the  description  in  the  original  text  may  be  closely  followed. 

No  detailed,  systematic  discussion  of  devices  for  securing 
good  effects  with  a  minimum  of  expenditure  is  necessary 
in  the  case  of  indoor  scenes.  A  few  scattered  hints  may  be 
helpful,  however.  In  several  of  the  interiors,  notably 
those  from  Treasure  Island,  Chaucer's  Prologue,  Long- 
fellow's Pre/i/c?e,  and  Ivanhoe,  an  open  fire  is  made  necessary 
by  the  situation  or  by  the  action.  Gas  logs,  and  even 
electric  connections  are  hardly  feasible  on  a  high  school 
stage.  Hence  the  following  suggestions  may  be  of  value 
in  the  solving  of  this  problem  of  stage  setting. 

Unless  the  text  or  the  action  demands  that  the  fireplace 
shall  be  in  a  conspicuous  position,  the  problem  of  con- 
struction is  comparatively  simple.     By  placing  it  diagonally 


2G  Dramatization 

across  the  right  or  left  corner,  well  to  the  front  of  the  stage, 
only  one  end  of  the  chimney  need  be  shown.  This  effect 
may  be  produced  by  a  strip  of  manila  ])a))er,  painted  to 
represent  bricks  or  stone,  and  fastened  to  a  board  forming 
one  of  two  uprights  attached  at  mantel  height  to  a  horizon- 
tal board,  for  the  shelf,  or  mantel.  If  electric  lights  are  at 
hand,  a  light  may  be  placed  so  as  to  shine  out  ui)on  the  floor 
and  into  the  faces  of  the  actors,  suggesting  the  fire-light; 
or  an  ordinary  lantern  will  serve  the  purpose. 

But  if  it  is  necessary  to  present  the  fireplace  to  the 
gaze  of  the  audience,  a  wooden  box  of  approi)riate  size, 
lined  with  black  cambric,  the  dull  side  out,  makes  a  good 
opening.  Around  this  is  built  a  framework  of  wood 
covered  with  manila  paper,  or  cheap  cotton  cloth  and 
painted  to  imitate  bricks  or  stone  as  desired.  It  should 
extend  to  the  ceiling,  or  at  least  above  the  curtain  line. 
Among  the  partly  blackened  logs,  placed  on  wrought  iron 
andirons,  red  Christmas  tinsel  is  strewn  to  catch  the  light. 
This  device  is  recommended  as  the  least  expensive  and 
safest  for  creating  the  illusion.  The  fireplace  in  Treasure 
Island  should  be  of  the  roughest  sort,  to  suggest  a  temporary 
camp. 

For  the  rest  of  the  setting  of  the  scene  in  the  block- 
house, some  suggestions  may  not  be  out  of  place.  The 
walls  may  be  made  of  manila  paper  or  unbleached  muslin, 
roughly  painted  to  represent  logs  and  stretched  over  a 
framework.  The  loopholes  in  this  case  can  be  made  very 
realistic.  Boys  who  have  played  at  camp  life  since  early 
childhood  may  usually  be  found  to  build  the  framework. 
If  not,  a  suitable  background  may  be  produced  by  side  and 
rear  curtains  of  w^ood  brown  or  dull  green  denim  with 
openings  for  loopholes.  Rifles,  cooking  utensils,  coats, 
etc.,  hung  about  the  stage,  further  suggest  the  atmosphere 
of  a  camp  in  the  woods. 


Purpose  and  Method  27 

(b)   Costuming 

Next  to  be  considered  is  the  question  of  costuming.  In 
the  impromptu  classroom  presentation,  such  simple  effects 
as  may  be  produced  by  a  cloak  thrown  over  the  shoulders, 
a  cap  of  appropriate  shape,  a  pointer  for  a  staff  or  spear,  and 
the  like,  are  sufficient  for  the  occasion.  If  a  scene  is 
assigned  several  days  beforehand,  however,  the  properties 
and  costumes  may  be  a  little  more  pretentious;  but  the 
simpler  the  classroom  dramatic  work,  the  better  it  will 
serve  the  desired  end. 

The  costuming  of  the  assembly  hall  production  must, 
of  course,  be  of  a  somewhat  more  elaborate  character. 
For  the  scenes  from  Silas  Marner,  Henry  Esmond,  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Treasure  Island,  Kidnapped,  and  the 
short  stories,  no  suggestions  need  be  given.  For  such 
costumes  mothers'  and  grandmothers'  chests  frequently 
offer  sufficient  stores  for  the  girls'  dresses.  These  old- 
fashioned  gowns  ma}^  easily  be  remodeled  in  accordance 
with  illustrations  of  the  dress  of  the  period.  In  like  manner 
fathers'  and  grandfathers'  clothes  furnish  the  stage  ward- 
robe for  the  boys.  The  men's  costumes  of  the  Age  of 
Chivalry  are  not  difficult  to  create  with  the  aid  of  long  hose 
and  cloaks.  Wood  for  the  spears,  and  cardboard  for  the 
various  parts  of  the  armor,  covered  with  bronze,  gold,  or 
silver  paper,  supply  the  equipment  of  the  Greek  warriors, 
the  knights  of  Arthur's  Round  Table,  and  the  Tartar  and 
Persian  chiefs.  For  the  devices  on  the  .shields,  colored 
paper  or  paint  may  be  used.  The  manufacture  of  such 
weapons  and  armor  ought  not  to  be  more  than  a  pleasant 
occupation  for  the  boys  concerned.  In  these  days  of  metal 
shop  work  in  high  schools,  sheets  of  tin  may  be  converted 
into  realistic  armor,  A  coat-of-nuul,  made  of  separate 
scales  of  tin  fastened  to  a  tight-fitting,  sleeveless  foundation 


28  Dramatization 

of  heavy  cambric  is  most  effective,  though  it  involves  more 
work  than  is  perliaps  desirable. 

For  the  girls'  costumes  of  the  Age  of  Chivalry,  and  the 
Homeric  Age,  as  well  as  for  all  tableaux  and  moving  pic- 
tures, including  those  from  the  Odyssey,  L- Allegro,  and 
II  Penseroso,  and  the  pictures  forming  the  Spring  Fantasy, 
cheese  cloth  is  the  best  material.  It  is  readily  fashioned 
into  graceful  effects  and  can  be  had  in  any  color.  The 
selection  of  colors  must  be  made  with  the  idea  of  producing 
a  harmonious  stage  picture,  and  of  emphasizing  important 
characters.  The  effect  of  artificial  light  on  the  various 
colors  must  also  be  taken  into  consideration.  For  example, 
yellow  and  orange  stand  out  clearly  under  artificial  lights 
and  so  should  not  be  used  for  unimportant  or  background 
characters;  blue  is  not  a  good  color;  pale  green  and  white 
are  scarcely  distinguishable;  and  red  is  dulled.  Red  light 
thrown  on  yellow  will  produce  flame  color.  Because 
different  dyes  of  the  same  color  act  differently  under 
artificial  lights,  it  is  best  before  buying  materials  to  get 
samples  for  testing  effects. 

A  feature  of  the  costume  which  sometimes  gives  trouble 
is  the  wig.  In  most  of  the  eighteenth  century  scenes 
wigs  are  indispensable,  and  there  are  other  occasions  when 
they  are  necessary.  There  are  two  objections  to  hiring 
them.  In  the  first  place  the  costumer's  charge  is  usually 
high;  in  the  second  place  the  use  of  hired  wigs  is  objec- 
tionable on  hygienic  grounds.  Hence  a  suggestion  for  a 
homemade  wig,  such  as  has  been  tried  and  not  found 
wanting,  may  be  of  value.  A  stockinet  cap  is  first 
fitted  closely  to  the  head.  To  this  is  attached  raveled 
hemp  (clothesline  furnishes  the  material)  cut  for  parted 
wigs,  double  the  desired  length,  and  sewed  in  the  middle 
so  as  to  make  the  part;  or  cut  for  pompadour  effects  the 
desired  length,  reversed,  and  sewed  around  the  edge  so  that 


Purpose  and  Method  29 

when  turned  back  the  ends  will  not  be  visible.  The  natural- 
colored  hemp  is  used  for  light  hair,  and  powdered  for  gray. 
For  other  colors  the  hemp  may  be  dipped  in  dyes.  The 
wig  is  held  firml3'  in  place  by  means  of  adhesive  plaster, 
or  cullodion,  at  the  temples.  Under  artificial  lights  this 
homemade  article  proves  a  very  satisfactory  substitute 
ior  the  hair  wig.  But  as  in  the  case  of  paint,  powder,  and 
the  like,  the  wig  should  be  dispensed  with  whenever  it  is 
not  absolutely  necessary. 

As  to  stage  properties,  one  illustration  of  the  more 
unusual  type  will  suffice.  In  the  tableau  representing 
Odysseus'  departure  from  Ogygia,  the  leather  water  and 
wine  bottles,  which  must  be  of  considerable  size,  may  be 
made  of  newspapers,  crushed  into  shape,  with  handles  of 
twisted  paper  sewed  at  the  sides.  The  outer  layer  is  of 
soft  unglazed  wrapping  paper,  painted  in  water-color  to 
produce  the  effect  of  leather.  These  two  bottles  are  fas- 
tened to  a  cord  and  slung  about  the  shoulders  of  Odysseus. 
In  this  day  of  the  training  of  the  eye  and  hand,  as  well  as  the 
mind,  no  high  school  lacks  pupils  or  teachers,  who  will  be 
able  to  suggest  and  carry  out  similar  devices. 

(c)  Lights 

Throughout  this  discussion  a  warning  note  has  been 
sounded  against  making  the  setting  too  prominent  a  feature 
of  the  assembly  hall  production.  This  caution  does  not  apply 
to  the  use  of  lights  as  an  aid  in  creating  the  illusion.  Day- 
light on  the  stage  brings  out  all  the  crudities  of  setting  and 
costumes.  Artificial  lights  soften  the  whole  effect  without 
becoming  an  obtrusive  feature  of  the  performance.  Indeed 
without  their  help  the  differentiation  of  day  and  night 
becomes  an  impossibility;  tableaux  cannot  be  made  beauti- 
ful pictures;  and  the  illusion  at  every  point  is  imperfect. 


30  Dramatization 

Only  a  few  years  ago  the  problem  of  lighting  a  high 
school  stage,  even  in  some  of  the  comi)aratively  large 
cities,  was  a  serious  one.  Today,  even  in  many  small 
towns,  high  schools  are  equipi)ed  with  electricity.  For 
daytime  scenes,  a  row  of  upper  lights  is  usually  sufficient, 
though  a  stereopticon  lantern  which  throws  the  light  on  the 
faces  from  the  rear  of  the  auditorium,  used  in  connection 
with  the  stage  lights,  is  still  better.  If  the  latter  are  on  two 
circuits,  alternate  green  and  white  lamps  will  be  found  a 
useful  combination.  For  night  scenes,  the  green  circuit 
should  be  used,  together  with  a  green  slide  for  the  lantern. 
Experiment  in  high  school  stage  productions  has  shown 
that  green  (for  moonlight  and  other  night  scenes);  red  (for 
sunrise  and  for  pink  lights  on  white  costumes  in  dances  and 
tableaux);  and  purple  (also  for  the  dances  and  tableaux) 
are  the  best  colors.  A  slide  of  these  three  colors  can  be 
made  out  of  isinglass  by  cutting  three  pieces,  each  the  size 
and  shape  needed  for  the  lantern  used,  and  sewing  the  three 
into  an  oblong  cardboard  frame  to  facilitate  handling.  For 
spotlights,  a  square  of  cardboard  with  an  elliptical,  oblong,  or 
square  hole  cut  in  the  center  may  be  used  where  a  sharply 
defined  spot  is  required.  To  produce  the  effect  of  light 
shining  through  foliage,  the  cardboard  should  be  torn  instead 
of  cut,  leaving  the  edges  of  the  hole  jagged.  A  pocket  flash- 
light will  prove  useful  for  the  representation  of  a  glow  worm 
or  a  swiftly  changing  fairy  light.  Realistic  lightning  may  be 
produced  on  a  stage  equipped  with  an  upper  row  of  lights, 
by  turning  them  on  and  off  at  irregular  intervals.  In  the 
first  scene  from  Silas  Marner,  for  example, lightning  could  be 
thus  simulated.  In  high  schools  having  neither  electric  lights 
nor  stereopticon  lanterns,  acetylene  automobile  lamps,  pro- 
vided with  reflectors  may  be  used  with  almost  if  not  quite  as 
good  results.  Slides  large  enough  to  cover  the  light  can  be 
made  for  these  as  described  above.     So  the  question  of  light- 


Purpose  and  Method  31 

ing  the  stage  need  not  prove  a  troublesome  feature  of  high 
school  dramatic  work,  even  in  poorly  equijiped  schools. 

{d)   Characters 

Besides  the  problems  of  setting,  costuming,  and  lights, 
there  is  the  character  problem.  By  this  is  meant  the 
problem  of  adapting  scenes  to  the  conditions  in  a  boys' 
school  or  a  girls'  school.  The  diflSculty  is  slight  in  the 
former,  as  high  school  classics  abound  in  scenes  in  which 
the  actors  are  all  men.  Note  the  number  in  this  book 
alone.  Hence  there  is  little  need  for  a  boy  to  assume  a 
feminine  role  except,  of  course,  in  the  classroom  interpre- 
tative work.  In  girls'  schools  the  problem  is  a  more  difficult 
one.  But  there  are  few  cases  in  which  in  the  more  informal 
scenes,  by  the  use  of  cap  and  cloak,  a  girl  may  not  play 
a  man's  part.  In  the  more  elaborate  assembly  hall  pro- 
ductions, men's  costumes  for  girls  can  be  easily  devised 
for  plays  of  the  Age  of  Chivalry  and  for  the  Chaucer  period, 
because  of  the  almost  universal  practice  among  both  men 
and  women  in  those  days  of  wearing  the  long  cloak.  Fairy 
scenes  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  a  girls'  school.  Such 
dramatizations  as  those  from  Treasure  Island,  it  is  true, 
could  be  used  only  in  the  classroom,  but  the  classics  abound 
in  opportunities  for  girls  in  the  assembly  hall  performance. 
The  scene  in  the  dressing  room  on  the  night  of  the  i)arty 
at  Squire  Cass's,  in  Silas  Marner,  and  the  scene  between 
Rebecca  and  Rowena  at  the  close  of  Ivanhoe  are  two  of 
many  that  might  be  mentioned. 

In  the  foregoing  suggestions  for  setting  and  costuming, 
the  emphasis  which  has  been  laid  upon  simple  homemade 
devices  for  creating  the  illusion  will,  it  is  hoped,  make  clear 
tiie  distinction  between  this  interpretative  dramatic  work 
and    the    customary     high    school    entertainment   of    the 


32  Dramatization 

Dramatic  Association.  The  latter  has  its  place  in  high 
school  life,  a  place  which  these  dramatizations  are  in  no 
sense  intended  to  usurp.  Its  field  is  the  as.sembly  hall  stage; 
its  purpose  is  to  entertain.  And  so  long  as  its  tone  and 
character  are  in  keeping  with  the  general  spirit  and  purpose 
of  education,  every  means  to  that  end,  however  spectac- 
ular, is  legitimate.  The  Dramatic  Association  of  the 
secondary  school  is  one  of  its  most  valuable  interests  and 
everything  should  be  done  to  arouse  enthusiasm  for  its 
activities.  But  the  purpose  of  these  dramatizations  is  to 
arouse  an  interest  in  English  classics  through  an  appeal  to 
the  natural  desire  of  a  boy  or  girl  to  express  life  in  action. 
Their  true  field,  is,  therefore,  the  classroom.  When  the 
assembly  hall  is  used  for  their  presentation  it  becomes  an 
enlarged  classroom,  since  here  the  dominating  idea  of  the 
assembly  hall  production  is,  like  that  of  the  classroom  per- 
formance, the  interpretation  of  literature. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  FURTHER 
DRAMATIZATION 

The  following  hints  for  further  work  of  the  nature 
indicated  by  the  specimen  dramatizations  in  this  book  are 
not  mere  addenda.  They  are,  in  fact,  an  integral  part  of 
the  plan,  designed  for  the  use  of  teachers,  or  of  pupils  under 
the  guidance  of  their  instructors.  Many  of  the  suggestions 
concern  the  dramatic  adaptation  of  additional  units 
selected  from  the  masterpieces  chosen  for  dramatization. 
Others  deal  with  classics  familiar  to  high  school  students 
but  not  represented  here.  In  the  former  case  it  is  usually 
unnecessary  to  work  out  the  proposed  treatment  in  great 


Purpose  and  Method  33 

detail,  as  the  model  stands  ready  to  hand.  But  in  the 
latter,  it  is  deemed  advisable  to  go  into  the  minutiae  of  the 
method  to  be  adopted,  chiefly  with  a  view  to  saving  time 
for  both  teacher  and  pupil.  For  the  sake  of  convenience, 
the  suggestions  are  grouped  as  follows;  the  novel;  the  short 
story;  the  epic;  the  ballad;  the  lyric. 


A.     THE  NOVEL 

/.     KIDNAPPED 

Robert  Louis   Stevenson 

Owing  to  the  nature  of  the  great  dramatic  situation  in 
Kidnapped,  covered  by  chaps,  viii,  ix,  x,  and  xi,  it  would 
be  absurd  to  attempt  a  dramatization  of  the  complete 
story  for  the  high  school  stage.  If  a  stage  presentation  is 
desired,  however,  many  detached  scenes  may  be  worked 
up  with  the  idea  of  showing  the  main  actors  of  the  story 
in  situations  which  bring  into  play  their  most  striking 
characteristics.  This  narrative  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  the 
classroom,  because  of  the  simplicity  of  the  action  and 
setting  in  the  chapters  other  than  those  mentioned  above, 
and  the  abundance  of  material  for  dramatic  dialogue  in 
the  chapters  that  do  not  admit  of  formal  dramatization. 

The  parting  of  David  and  Mr.  Campbell,  in  chap,  i 
makes  an  attractive  little  scene  for  the  classroom.  Few 
properties  are  needed.  The  text  reciuires  only  slight 
changes.  One  or  two  suggestions  for  the  stage  "business" 
may  be  helpful.  When  the  letter  is  handed  to  David,  he 
should  read  the  address  aloud  slowly,  with  growing  pride 
in  his  voice,  and  a  straightening  of  his  shoulders.  David's 
reflections  at  the  close,  as  he  watches  the  minister  depart, 
should  be  put  in  the  form  of  a  soliloquy. 


34  Dramatization 

David's  compact  with  Alan  in  chap,  xviii,  furnishes 
the  cUniax  of  another  episode  that  can  be  effectively 
dramatized.  The  incident  begins  in  chap.  xvii.  David 
appears,  breathlessly  running,  in  his  effort  to  escape  the 
soldiers  after  the  death  of  the  Red  Fox.  Alan  is  partly 
concealed  from  the  audience  in  a  clump  of  trees  (for  our 
purpose  bushes).  The  dialogue  begins  with  Alan's  sudden 
call,  Jouk  in  here  among  the  trees.  They  have  hardly 
concealed  themselves  when  two  or  more  red-coats  run 
across  the  stage  in  hot  pursuit  of  David.  (Omit  the  rest  of 
chap,  xvii,  to  avoid  change  of  scene.)  After  the  depart- 
ure of  the  soldiers,  Alan  and  David  come  out  of  their  place 
of  concealment  and  sit  down  to  rest.  The  dialogue 
continues  with  Alan's  words  at  the  beginning  of  chap, 
xviii,  Well,  yon  was  a  hot  burst,  David,  which  in  the  original 
refers  to  their  flight  after  David  had  joined  Alan,  but  which 
can  be  taken  as  referring  to  David's  flight  alone.  The 
scene  closes  with  Alan's  words,  A7id  now  let 's  take  another  keek 
at  the  red-coats.  The  curtain  falls  as  they  move  toward  a 
place  from  which  they  can  get  a  view  of  the  open  heather. 

Chap,  xxix  offers  a  good  closing  scene  for  a  series  such 
as  was  indicated  at  the  beginning  of  these  suggestions 
or  it  may  be  used  as  a  separate  unit.  The  difficulty  of 
representing  part  of  the  exterior  of  the  House  of  Shaws  will 
not  be  very  great,  as  the  stage  is  in  semi-darkness.  But  the 
incident  may  be  given  in  the  classroom,  without  scenery. 
David,  Mr.  Rankeillor,  and  Torrance  remain  concealed 
from  Ebenezer  Balfour,  but  in  view  of  the  audience,  during 
the  conversation  between  Alan  and  Mr.  Balfour.  Their 
stage  "business"  will  be  suggested  by  the  dialogue.  To 
avoid  the  shifting  of  the  scene  at  the  close,  the  entrance  into 
the  house  must  be  deferred.  After  the  greeting  of  Torrance, 
It's  a  braio  nicht,  Mr.  Balfour,  Mr.  Rankeillor  turns  to 
David  and  says,  Mr.  David,  I  wish  you  all  joy  in  your  good 


Purpose  and  Method  35 

fortune.  Following  his  thrust  at  Alan,  which  closes  with, 
/  judged  you  must  refer  to  that  you  had  in  baptism,  as 
Alan  turns  away,  deeply  injured,  Mr.  Rankeillor  takes 
Ebcnezer  by  the  arm,  lifts  him  up,  hands  David  the  blun- 
derbuss, and  says.  Come,  come,  Mr.  Ebenezer,  you  must  not 
he  downhearted,  for  I  promise  you  we  shall  make  easy 
terms.  And  come,  Mr.  Thomson,  you  must  not  mind  an 
old  man's  jests.  Mr.  Balfour  shall  give  us  the  cellar  key,  and 
Torrance  shall  draw  us  a  bottle  of  David's  grandfather's 
icine,  and  we  shall  all  drink  to  the  lad' s  good  fortune  which  I 
believe  to  be  deserved.    As  they  start  to  go  in,  the  curtain  falls. 


77.     TREASURE  ISLAND 
Robert  Louis   Stevenson 

Chap,  vi  of  Treasure  Island  furnishes  most  of  the  material 
for  a  scene  which  will  present  the  important  occurrences 
in  Part  I  of  the  story.  The  setting  is  the  interior  of  Squire 
Trelawney's  library.  The  stage  appointments  consist  of  a 
library  table  strewn  with  writing  materials,  two  or  three 
leather  chairs,  and  a  bookcase  or  two  filled  with  books. 
The  fireplace  needed  may  be  a  corner  fireplace  such  as 
is  described  under  Practical  Suggestions.  Dr.  Livesey 
and  the  Scpiire  are  seated  in  front  of  the  fire,  pipes  in 
hand,  as  the  curtain  rises.  A  knock  at  the  door  is  followed 
by  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  with  Jim  Hawkins,  and  Mr. 
Dance.  They  stand  hesitatingly  in  the  doorway  for  a 
moment,  until  the  Squire  says.  Come  in,  Mr^  Dance. 
When  the  Doctor  asks  the  question,  What  good  wind  brings 
you  here?  Mr.  Dance,  interrupted  now  and  then  by  Jim, 
who  supplements  the  narrative,  gives  a  dramatic  account 
of  the  incidents  of  chaps,  iv  and  v.  The  story  should  be 
briefly   and  breathlessly   told.     The  stage   "business"   for 


30  Dramatization 

the  Squire  and  tlic  Doctor,  is  given  in  the  text  at  this  point. 
With  the  exception  of  the  dialogue  to  be  supplied  at  the 
beginning  of  the  scene,  the  chapter  provides  all  that  is 
necessary  to  the  making  of  a  good  dramatic  unit  both  in 
the  way  of  stage  directions  and  dialogue. 

///.     SILAS  MARNER 
George  Eliot 

An  amusing  little  episode  from  Silas  Marner,  especially 
adapted  to  a  girls'  school,  is  the  scene  in  the  Blue  Room  at 
Squire  Cass's  on  New  Year's  Eve,  chap.  xi.  The  dialogue 
can  be  readily  expanded  from  suggestions  in  the  text  itself. 
When  the  curtain  rises,  the  ladies  are  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  their  toilets.  Nancy  enters,  makes  a  curtsy, 
and  is  greeted  by  her  aunt,  who  says.  Niece,  I  hope  I  see 
you  well  in  health.  Nancy  busies  herself  with  her  toilet, 
from  time  to  time  expressing  her  anxiety  about  Priscilla's 
failure  to  appear.  Just  as  she  clasps  her  coral  necklace 
about  her  neck,  her  sister  enters,  throws  off  her  cloak, 
displaying  a  gown  the  exact  counterpart  of  Nancy's,  and 
exclaims,  What  do  you  think  o'  these  gowns.  Aunt  Osgood? 
During  the  ensuing  dialogue,  Priscilla,  with  Nancy's  help, 
rearranges  her  hair,  smooths  out  the  folds  of  her  gown,  and 
puts  on  a  lace  collar  like  Nancy's,  which  she  takes  from  her 
bag.  She  pauses,  from  time  to  time,  to  address  one  or 
another  of  the  ladies  present.  They  go  out  one  by  one, 
until  only  Mrs.  Osgood,  the  Miss  Gunns,  and  the  Lam- 
meter  sisters  remain.  Priscilla's  remarks  addressed  to  the 
Miss  Gunns  are  followed  by  their  departure  with  !Mrs. 
Osgood.  The  scene  closes  with  Priscilla's  words.  Come,  we 
can  go  down  noio.  I'm  as  ready  as  a  maickin  can  be — 
there's  nothing  a-wanting  to  frighten  the  crows,  noio  I've  got 
my  ear-droppers  in. 


Purpose  and  Method  37 

IV.     IV  AN  no  E 

Sir    Walter    Scott 

A  very  pretty  stage  picture  can  be  made  by  the  drama- 
tization of  the  last  part  of  the  hist  chapter  of  Ivanhoe,  the 
meeting  of  Rebecca  and  Rowena. 

This  takes  place  in  the  garden  of  the  Lady  Rowena, 
which  can  be  represented  with  little  difficulty.  Two  or 
three  rustic  benches,  one  or  two  tables  on  which  there  stand 
vases  of  flowers,  and  several  large  palms  will  aid  in  produc- 
ing the  desired  effect. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  Lady  Rowena  is  discovered 
sitting  on  a  rustic  bench,  arranging  some  flowers  in  a  vase 
on  a  small  table  in  front  of  her.  Her  maid,  Elgitha,  enters, 
ushering  in  Rebecca,  who  is  closely  veiled.  Rowena  rises 
to  greet  her  visitor  and  is  about  to  conduct  her  to  a  seat 
when  Rebecca  intimates,  by  glancing  at  Elgitha,  that  she 
desires  to  be  alone  with  Rowena.  So  Rowena  dismisses 
her  maid,  who,  very  unwillingly,  leaves  the  stage.  Then 
Rebecca  kneels  before  Rowena  and  kisses  the  hem  of  her 
garment.  The  action  and  dialogue  for  the  scene  are 
indicated  in  the  text. 

The  contrast  between  the  Jewess  and  the  Saxon  maiden 
should  be  made  as  striking  as  possible  by  difference  of 
costume,  ornaments,  and  mode  of  hair  dressing.  The 
Lady  Rowena  should  wear  rich  bridal  robes  trimmed  with 
pearls;  her  bridal  veil,  held  in  place  by  a  headdress  of  pearls, 
falls  over  her  face.  Her  hair  should  be  braided  in  two 
plaits.  A  rich  cloak  hangs  over  the  rustic  scat.  Rebecca 
should  be  dressed  in  an  oriental  costume  full  of  color;  her 
veil,  which  reaches  to  the  ground,  partially  conceals  her 
features.     Her  dark  hair  is  dressed  high. 


38  Dramatization 

V.     A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 
Charles   Dickens 

Among  the  many  single  scenes  in  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities 
suitable  for  dramatization,  The  Jackal,  liook  II,  chap,  v, 
and  A  Plea,  Book  II,  chap,  xx,  are  suggested. 

The  Jackal 

The  scene  is  a  dingy  room.  Two  or  three  bookcases 
filled  with  law  books  occupy  the  rear  of  the  stage.  On  a 
table  littered  with  papers,  a  lamp  burns  dimly.  Stryver 
sits  at  the  table  reading.  (The  text  gives  a  description 
of  the  appearance  of  Stryver).  On  a  small  stand  at  one 
side  are  a  decanter  of  wine,  a  water-bottle,  and  glasses. 
As  the  curtain  goes  up,  a  knock  is  heard  and  Stryver  rises 
to  admit  Carton.  After  the  greeting,  Vou  are  a  little  late. 
Memory,  Stryver  settles  himself  comfortably  in  an  easy 
chair  and  Carton  takes  a  seat  at  the  table  and  begins  to 
sort  and  straighten  the  papers,  jotting  down  notes  from 
time  to  time.  All  the  while,  the  conversation  as  given  in 
the  text  proceeds.  The  action  described  in  the  original 
suggesting  the  sobering  down  of  Carton  to  work  is  omitted, 
and  the  drinking  is  reduced  to  a  glass  or  two.  Other 
changes  are  unnecessary.  The  talk,  beginning  with 
Stryver's  welcome,  continues  through  Carton's  speech 
ending,  And  noiv  I'll  have  no  more  drink;  I'll  get  to  bed. 

A  Plea 

The  scene  presents  the  pleasant  living  room  of  Dr.  Man- 
ette's  home.  Dr.  Manette  and  Mr.  Lorry  are  seated  at 
a  small  table  deeply  engrossed  in  a  game  of  chess.  Charles 
Darnay  is  standing  before  the  open  fire  with  his  hands 
behind  him.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Sydney  Carton  is 
announced.  Greetings  are  exchanged  and  Darnay,  remark- 
ing that  they  will  leave  Dr.  Manette  and  Mr.  Lorry  to 


Purpose  and  Method  39 

their  game,  leads  Carton  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage. 
They  seat  themselves  comfortably  and  the  conversation 
given  in  the  text  takes  place.  When  Carton  leaves,  Darnay 
walks  over  to  the  two  men  and  declares  that  he  will  break 
uj)  their  game,  as  he  wants  them  to  be  sociable.  But  just 
tlien  Lucy,  accompanied  by  Miss  Pross,  enters,  hat  and 
cloak  on.  Darnay  greets  her  and  then  tells  her  laughingly 
that  she  has  just  missed  an  old  friend.  He  next  makes  a 
remark  about  Carton's  carelessness  and  recklessness,  a 
remark  which  evidently  hurts  Lucy.  Miss  Pross,  in  the 
meantime,  has  removed  I^ucy's  hat  ?nd  wrap.  She  now 
leaves,  but  returns  immediately  with  a  tray  on  which  are 
tea  and  cakes.  These  she  passes  to  Mr.  Lorry  and  Dr. 
INIanette,  and  to  Lucy  and  Darnay,  who  have  seated 
themselves  at  a  small  table.  The  conversation  begins 
with  Darnay 's  speech,  We  are  thoughifid  tonight!  —  and 
continues  unchanged  throughout  the  chapter,  with  the 
exception  that  the  love  passages  are  cut.  As  Darnay  says, 
/  will  ahoays  remember  it,  dear  Heart,  I  will  remember  it -as 
long  as  I  live,  they  rise  and  go  over  to  Dr.  Manette  and  Mr. 
Lorry,  who  are  still  absorbed  in  their  game  of  chess.  Lucy 
j)laces  her  hand  on  her  father's  shoulder  and  playfully 
rebukes  the  two  men  for  keeping  such  late  hours.  Mr. 
Lorry  pleads  for  just  a  minute  more,  and  the  curtain  goes 
down  as  Lucy  takes  out  her  watch  to  time  them. 

B.     THE  SHORT   STORY 

The  number  of  short  stories  that  lend  themselves  to 
dramatization  is  legion.  Besides  those  used  in  this  book, 
the  following  are  suggested  for  high  school  work:  The 
Ambitious  Guest,  from  Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales;  The 
Hungry  Man  Was  Fed,  from  Richard  Harding  Davis's 
Van  Bibber  and  Others,  and  The  First  Parish  Meeting,  from 
Quiller-Couch's  Wandering  Heath. 


40  Dramatization 

I.     THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST 

Nathaniel   Hawthorne 

Hawthorne's  The  Ambitious  Guest,  though  a  somber 
theme,  ean  be  effectively  dramatized.  Practically  no 
changes  need  be  made  in  turning  the  story  into  a  drama. 
The  situation  and  action, — the  family  group  gathered 
around  the  fireside  of  the  large  kitchen  of  a  mountain 
cottage;  the  arrival  of  the  stranger;  the  significant 
conversation;  the  ominous  noise  outside;  and  the  wild  flight 
of  the  inmates  in  search  of  safety — can  be  represented 
impressively  even  on  a  high  school  stage. 


II.     THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS  FED 

Richard  Harding  Davis 

An  amusing  little  play  in  two  scenes  might  be  made 
of  Davis's  The  Hungry  Man  Was  Fed.  The  following 
hints  may  be  helpful. 

Scene  I 

The  stage  should  present  a  busy  New  York  street.  A 
drop  curtain  painted  to  represent  the  outside  of  shops  is  of 
course  the  best  device  for  suggesting  the  setting,  but  a  line 
of  tall  screens  covered  with  posters  advertising  wares  and 
picturing  shops  will  serve  the  purpose.  People  are  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro.  Standing  conspicuously  at  one  end  of  the 
street  is  the  beggar.  Van  Bibber  enters,  stops,  and  looks 
confusedly  around.  He  walks  back  and  forth  not  knowing 
which  way  to  turn.  Soon  he  meets  a  friend.  They 
exchange  greetings  as  in  the  story.     When  Van  Bibber  starts 


Purpose  a  fid  Method  41 

to  go  off,  he  is  accosted  by  the  beggar,  who  asks  for  money, 
as  in  the  text.  Van  liibljer  tosses  him  a  quarter  and 
hurries  away  after  making  the  remark  giyen  in  the  story. 
The  beggar  remains  on  the  stage;  takes  out  his  money  bag 
and  sohloquizes  somewhat  in  this  manner;  My,  he  was  an 
easy  guy!  I  tvish  they  was  all  like  him!  People  continue 
to  pass,  the  beggar  trying  his  wiles  on  all  of  them.  None 
take  notice  of  him,  however.  Presently  Van  Bibber 
appears  again.  He  is  puzzled,  remarks  that  he  has  lost 
his  bearings,  that  he  is  just  where  he  started  from.  He 
spies  the  beggar  again  and  watches  him  get  ten  cents  from 
two  men.  The  beggar  then  comes  toward  Van  Bibber. 
He  does  not  recognize  him,  repeats  his  sad  tale,  and  Van 
Bibber  this  time  hands  him  a  half  dollar,  remarking  to 
himself  that  now  the  beggar  surely  has  enough  money  to 
buy  something  to  eat.  Then  Van  Bibber  disappears,  but 
almost  immediately  reappears.  The  beggar  again 
approaches  him.  Van  Bibber,  though  now  thoroughly 
exasi)erated,  pretends  great  sympathy  for  him.  The  dia- 
logue proceeds  as  in  the  text,  ending  by  Van  Bibber's 
insisting  on  taking  the  beggar  to  breakfast. 


Scene  II 

The  scene  is  the  eating  room  of  a  very  ordinary  restau- 
rant. It  may  be  suggested  by  several  small  tables  set  for 
serving,  at  some  of  which  people  are  seated  eating.  Three 
or  four  boys  wearing  white  aprons,  napkins  over  their 
arms,  stand  waiting.  As  the  curtain  rises.  Van  Bibber 
enters,  accompanied  by  the  beggar.  The  action  and  the 
dialogue  of  the  text  are  followed  to  the  end  of  the  story. 
The  curtain  falls  as  Van  Bibber  leaves  the  restaurant  in 
triumph. 


42  ■  Dramatization 

III.     THE  FIRST  PARISH  MEETING 
Arthur   T.   Quiller-Couch 

Quiller-(.'oiicIi's  story,  The  First  Parish  Meeting,  furnishes 
a  humorous  situation  well  adapted  to  high  school  dramati- 
zation. 

The  scene  represents  a  political  meeting  in  the  Town 
Hall  of  a  small  English  settlement.  A  number  of  men  are 
sitting  at  rude  tables;  the  Chairman  is  seated  on  a  slightly 
elevated  platform.  The  necessary  action  is  suggested  by 
the  text.  The  chief  change  required  is  the  turning  of 
indirect  discourse  into  direct,  in  the  first  part  of  the  stor3\ 
Toward  the  end  of  the  incident,  the  word  sick  is  substituted 
for  cryiri  out  in  the  speech.  Because  if  so,  he  must  please 
come  home  at  once,  Mrs.  Hansombody's  cryin  out;  and  the 
speech  that  follows  is  omitted.  The  curtain  drops  as  the 
meeting  is  adjourned. 

C.     THE  EPIC 

/.     LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE 
Alfred,   Lord   Tennyson 

An  episode  in  Lancelot  and  Elaine  from  Tennyson's  Idylls 
of  the  King  with  all  the  elements  of  a  dramatic  situation  is 
The  Quest  of  Gaicain.  The  setting  is  the  same  as  that 
described  for  the  first  scene  from  this  Idyll. 

Elaine,  dreamily  wandering  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
castle,  her  mind  occupied  with  thoughts  of  Lancelot, 
suddenly  looks  in  the  direction  which  he  had  taken-  for  the 
diamond  joust.  Her  face  becomes  animated  and  she 
exclaims, 

A  knight  returning  from  the  diamond  joust! 

Why  hath  he  left  the  barren,  beaten  icay? 

Perchance  I'll  learn 


Purpose  and  Method  43 

The  knight  appears  at  this  moment  and  greets  Elaine,  who 
eagerly  inquires, 

0  stranger  knight,  what  news  from  Camelot?     (Line  616) 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve,  my  lord? 

The  remainder  of  the  dialogue  must  be  similarly  worked 
out.  The  action  is  fully  described  in  the  poem.  Lines  623 
through  627  must  be  changed  from  indirect  to  direct  dis- 
course. The  time  of  the  episode  is  shortened  to  one  day. 
The  Lord  of  Astolat  retires  into  the  castle  after  the  line, 
Needs  must  we  hear.  Elaine  accompanies  him  part  way, 
giving  opportunity  for  the  aside  of  Gawain,  line  640.  Lines 
641  through  647  may  be  altogether  omitted  or  a  pupil  of 
inventive  imagination  may  interpolate  lines  based  on  the 
narrative  at  this  point.  From  line  648  to  the  departure  of 
Gawain,  line  696,  the  only  change  necessary  is  the  com- 
pletion of  lines  from  which  descriptive  or  explanatory 
elements  have  been  removed. 

This  short  episode  makes  an  interesting  character 
study  of  Gawain  and  may  readily  be  used  as  a  classroom 
exercise  without  scenery. 

//.     THE  HOLY  GRAIL 
Alfred,   Lord  Tennyson 

Another  of  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King,  The  Holy 
Grail,  admits  of  a  slightly  different  type  of  dramatic 
treatment  from  any  here  given,  a  combination  of  the 
tableau,  or  moving  j)icture,  with  dialogue.  Because  of 
this  difference,  scene  i  is  given  in  some  detail. 

The  stage  should  be  set  as  follows.  Forward,  at  one 
side,  but  so  that  they  shajl  be  a  part  of  the  scene,  without 
obscuring  the  visions  as  they  pass.  Sir  Percivale  and  the 
monk  Ambrosius  are  seated  on  a  bench  under  a  vew  tree. 


44  Dramatization 

The  time  is  late  afternoon  on  an  April  day,  hence  the  stage 
represents  a  spring  landscape,  though  of  a  more  somber 
character  than  for  the  dramatization  of  Gareth  and  Lynetle. 
The  general  tone  of  the  setting  should  be  gray.  If  possible, 
a  gauze  curtain  should  be  dropped  across  the  stage,  behind 
which  the  moving  visions,  suggested  by  Sir  Perci vale's 
story,  come  and  go.  This  curtain  may  be  dispensed  with, 
however,  and  the  effect  of  phantoms  produced  by  filmy, 
gray  cloaks,  partly  concealing  the  knightly  array.  Since 
the  visions  represent  what  is  passing  in  the  minds  of  the 
two  men  as  the  story  progresses,  a  phantom  Sir  Percivale 
appears  with  the  other  knights. 

To  carry  out  the  story  consistently  to  its  conclusion, 
scene  ii,  the  return  of  the  knights  to  Arthur's  hall,  is 
represented  as  a  dream  of  the  aged  monk  Ambrosius,  to 
whom  Sir  Percivale  has  promised  to  relate  the  rest  of  the 
story  at  another  time.  When  the  curtain  rises  on  the 
second  scene,  Ambrosius  is  alone,  sleeping  on  the  bench 
with  his  head  resting  against  the  trunk  of  the  yew  tree. 
The  stage  is  now  in  moonlight.  The  costumes  still  preserve 
the  grayish  tone  characteristic  of  the  visions  in  scene  i. 

For  the  successful  representation  of  this  Idyll,  a  stereop- 
ticon  lantern  is  necessary.  In  the  pictures  suggesting  the 
visions  of  the  Holy  Grail  itself,  a  ray  of  light  thrown  from 
one  side,  part  way  across  the  stage,  will  help  to  create  the 
illusion. 


Scene  I 
The  dialogue  begins  with  line  18. 

Ambrosius 
0  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew-tree  smoke — through  line  29. 


Purpose  and  Method  45 

Sir  Percivale 

Nay,  brother,  nay,  for  no  such  passion  mine.     Line  30 
(slightly  changed)  through  line  36. 

Ambrosius 
Lines  40  through  44,  changing  line  40  thus: 
Yea,  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of  ours 

Sir  Percivale 
Lines  45  through  58,  changing  line  45  thus : 

Nay  monk!  no  phantom,  but  the  Holy  Grail. 

Ambrosius 
Line  67. 

Sir  Percivale 
Lines  68  through  72,  changed  to  read: 

A  nun — no  further  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  holy  maid 

Ambrosius  (Interrupting) 
But  tell  me  how  the  miracle  was  wrought. 

Sir  Percivale 

Lines  76  and  77,  combined  thus : 

She  gave  herself  to  prayer,  and  fast,  and  alms. 
Continue  with  lines  83  through  107;then  124  through  128. 


46  Dramatization 

First  Vision 

As  Sir  Percivale  continues  with  lines  101  through  107  and 
124  through  128,  the  picture  of  the  nun  suggested  by  the 
Unes  appears,  moves  slowly  across  the  rear  of  the  stage,  and 
disappears,  following  a  ray  of  light  thrown  by  a  lantern 
at  the  side. 

Sir  Percivale 

Lines  134  through  142;  149  (change  hut  to  and)  through 
157;  160  through  165.  i 

Second  Vision 

Galahad  and  the  nun  appear  at  the  words,  Go  forth,  the 
picture  suggesting  the  beginning  of  Galahad's  quest  under 
the  nun's  inspiration.  They  move  slowly  across  the  stage 
and  disappear. 

Sir  Percivale 

Lines  179  through  202. 

Ambrosius 
Line  204. 

Sir  Percivale 
Lines  205  and  206  combined  thus : 

Nay,  for  my  lord  the  King  loas  not  in  hall. 

Ambrosius  (Interpolate) 

But  when  the  King  returned  did  he  see  nought? 

Sir  Percivale 

Lines  216  through  224;  258  through  276;  line  314 
changed  thus: 

But  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  ye  must  go! 

Ambrosius  (Interpolate) 
And  did  ye  all  at  once  fulfill  your  vows? 


Purpose  and  Method  47 

Sir  Percivale 
Lines  328  through  332,  condensed  thus: 

Nay,  when  the  sun  broke  next  from  under  ground, 
At  Arthur  s  bidding,  all  the  Table  Round 
Closed  in  a  tourney,  such  as  Camelot 
Had  never  seen  since  first  the  King  was  croivned. 

Continue  with  line  338,  followed  by: 

We  passed  along  the  streets  of  Camelot; 

And  knights  and  ladies  ivept,  and  rich  and  poor 

Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could  hardly  speak 

For  grief, — but  some  there  ivere  who  called, "God  speed!" 

Then  lines  358  through  360. 

Ambrosius  (Interpolate) 

And  then,  my  brother,  thou  wert  surely  first 

Or  second  only  unto  Galahad!      .      .       .       The  cup? 

Sir  Percivale  (Sadly) 

Yea,  so  I  thought  at  first- — I  felt,  I  knew 
That  I  should  light  upon  the  Holy  Grail! 

Continue  with  Hues  361  through  365;  368  through  378. 
Interpolate : 

Another  time,0  brother,  I  rrill  tell 

Thee  hou)  strange  visions  came  and  went,  and  how 

I  took  the  false  for  true,  until  I  found 

A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage. 

Then  lines  444  through  446;  454  through  460. 


48  Dramatization 

Third  Vision 

The  appearance  of  Sir  Galahad  in  the  hermit's  cell  is 
represented,  as  lines  4;58  throu^di  4G0  are  spoken.  The 
three  phantoms  move  slowly  across  the  stage  as  in  the 
other  visions. 

Sir  Percivale  (After  the  vision  passes) 
Lines  461  through  465;  then, 

Now  I  go  hence,  and  one  will  crown  me  king. 
Lines  483  through  488. 

Ambrosius   (Interpolate) 
And  then  at  last  ye  saiv  the  Holy  Grail? 

Sir  Percivale  (Interpolate) 
Yea,  from  afar,  as  Galahad  entered  in. 
Lines  526  through  532  beginning, 

/  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires. 
Then  line  534  changed  to  read, 

And  ho7v  my  feet  retraced  the  path  I  came. 
Lines  535  through  539. 

Ambrosius 
Lines  561  through  563  beginning, 

0  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad. 

Sir  Percivale 

Lines  564  through  567.  Percivale  sits  in  meditation, 
as  the  vision  which  represents  his  great  temptation  passes. 

Fourth  Vision 

The  Princess,  with  her  maidens  crosses  the  stage  and 
greets  the  phantom  Sir  Percivale,  who  disappears  with  nar. 


Purpose  and  Method  49 

Ambrosius  (Interrupting  Sir  Percivale's  meditation) 
Lines  630  and  631  combined  to  read: 

Saw  ye,  save  Galahad,  no  other  knights? 

Sir  Percivale 
Lines  632  through  643. 

Fifth  Vision 

The  figure  of  Sir  Bors  passes  across  the  stage,  disappear- 
ing as  Hue  634  is  spoken. 

Ambrosius 
Lines  696  through  707,  beginning  thus, 

A  pelican  on  the  casque?     Sir  Bers  it  ivas. 

Sir   Percivale. 
Ay,  brother,  truly,  since  the  living  words. 
Then  Hues  708  through  711. 

Interpolate : 

But  night  has  fallen  since  my  tale  began. 
And  thou  art  tceary,  so  another  day 
I'll  tell  thee  what  befell  at  Arthur's  court. 
When  some  of  those  tvho  went  upon  the  quest 
Returned  and  stood  before  the  King 

Scene  II 

The  stage  setting  must  remain  practically  the  same  for 
this  scene,  as  this  is  sinijjly  another  vision.  But  provision 
can  be  made  in  the  original  setting  for  a  raised  seat  for  King 
Arthur  at  the  rear-center,  forming  a  part  of  the  surrountl- 
ings  of  the  monastery. 

As  the  treatment  of  the  text  in  this  part  of  the  Idyll 
is   the    same   as   that    illustrated   in   detail    in   the    scenes 


50  Dramatization 

from  Gareth  and  Lynette  and  Lancelot  and  Elaine,  no 
further  suggestions  are  necessary  except  for  the  close. 
After  Arthur's  address  to  the  knights,  they  softly  dis- 
appear like  the  phantoms  in  scene  i.  Ambrosius  wakens, 
looks  about  him  in  bewilderment,  rises  sleepily,  and,  as 
he  moves  slowly  toward  the  exit  by  which  Sir  Percivale 
departed,  says  dreamily, 

I  must  have  slept,  and  dreamt  I  saiv  the  King 

And  those  great  knights  of  Arthur  s  Table  Round! 

And  yet  how  real  they  seemed! 

III.    SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 

Matthew  Arnold 

The  incident  of  the  challenge,  in  Sohrab  and  Rustum, 
lines  195  through  269,  furnishes  a  dramatic  situation  from  the 
poem.  It  may  be  used  as  a  second  scene,  coming  between 
the  two  dramatized.  Few  changes  of  setting  are  neces- 
sary. Rustum's  tent  is  of  scarlet  cloth,  an  effect  which 
may  be  produced  by  covering  the  tent  of  Peran-Wisa 
without  removing  it,  if  the  two  scenes  are  to  be  used 
together.  The  poem  fully  describes  the  stage  furniture  re- 
quired. This  must,  of  course,  be  modified  to  suit  condi- 
tions. The  falcon,  for  example,  will  have  to  be  omitted. 
The  scene  is  so  short  that  the  speeches  will  require  little 
cutting,  but  the  long  speech  of  Rustum,  lines  2-21  through 
241  may  be  broken  by  interpolating  one  or  two  lines  for 
Gudurz.  One  such  interruption  might  follow  line  227. 
The  treatment  of  the  text  is  so  simple  and  so  exactly  like 
that  illustrated  by  the  two  scenes  dramatized,  that  further 
suggestions  are  unnecessary. 

The  scene  may  end  with  Rustum's  call  to  his  followers, 
or,  if  conditions  admit,  the  curtain  may  fall  on  the  scene 
described  in  lines  265  through  269. 


Purpose  and  Method  51 

IV.      THE  ILIAD 


(Liue  numTjers  refer  to  Pope's  Translation, 
but  any  good  text  may  be  used.) 


Priam's  Appeal  to  Achilles  for  the  body  of  Hector,  Book 
XXIV  will  make  an  effective  scene  of  a  totally  different 
character  from  the  episode  of  The  Quarrel  of  Agamemnon 
and  Achilles.  The  following  suggestions  may  be  helpful  in 
dramatizing  the  scene. 

The  time  is  toward  morning.  The  stage  at  first  is  in 
almost  total  darkness  except  for  a  faint  glow  from  a  torch 
burning  in  Achilles'  tent.  The  light  thrown  upon  the 
stage  should  remain  dim  until  the  departure  of  Hermes, 
after  which  it  should  gradually  reach  the  full  morning  light. 

The  stage  represents  the  interior  of  Achilles'  tent,  with 
its  immediate  surroundings.  Achilles  is  seated  on  a  stool, 
his  head  resting  on  one  hand,  his  whole  attitude  suggestive 
of  deep  grief.  On  one  side,  a  little  to  the  rear  cf  Achilles, 
his  two  friends,  Automedon  and  Alcimus,  are  lying  asleep. 
The  curtain  rises  on  this  picture. 

Enter  the  goddess-mother,  Thetis,  in  flowing  robe  of 
filmy  sea-green,  sparkling  here  and  there  to  suggest  water; 
on  her  feet,  silver  sandals;  in  her  hand,  a  silver  scepter, 
resembling  Neptune's  trident.  She  stands  by  Achilles'  side 
and  lays  her  hand  upon  his  head. 
•    The  dialogue  begins;  lines  1C3  through  174. 

Interpolate  an  appropriate  farewell  speech  for  Thetis, 
who  disappears  into  the  darkness.  If  a  magic  lantern  is 
available,  the  si)otlight  may  be  effectively  used  here. 

Achilles  resumes  his  former  attitude.  As  he  sits  obliv- 
ious of  his  surroundings,  Hermes  and  Priam  appear  at  the 
opening  of  his  tent:  line  oG2. 

For  a  description  of  Hermes'  appearance,  see  lines  417 
through  426. 


52  Dramatization 

Hermes,  having  conducted  Priam  to  the  tent,  now  takes 
his  leave:  Hnes  5G5  through  57.5.  Priam  and  Hermes  are 
on  foot  when  they  appear  at  the  tent,  not  in  the  chariot 
as  described  in  the  poem,  since  this  would  make  the  stag- 
ing too  complicated  for  high  school  use. 

Priam  enters  the  tent.  The  stage  "business"  is  fully 
described  in  the  text. 

Priam  addresses  Achilles:  lines  598  through  633.  This 
speech  should  be  cut  a  little.  The  action  for  Achilles  is 
described  in  lines  634  through  652. 

The  next  speech  of  Achilles  should  be  cut  considerably  and 
the  situation  might  be  made  more  dramatic  by  interpolating 
short  exclamations  for  Priam.  Priam's  stage  "business" 
should  be  related  throughout  to  the  points  of  Achilles' speech. 

Treat  similarly  the  dialogue  to  line  720. 

At  line  720,  to  prevent  the  necessity  of  change  of  scene, 
a  speech  should  be  introduced  for  Priam,  relative  to  the 
ransom.     He  then  withdraws  to  bring  in  the  ransom. 

A  short  speech  for  Achilles  is  here  necessary,  giving 
directions  to  his  two  companions,  Automedon  and  Alcimus, 
(who  awaken  on  the  entrance  of  Priam)  to  oversee  the 
bringing  of  the  gifts  from  Priam's  chariot. 

Achilles,  now  alone,  groans  and  calls  upon  Patroclus: 
lines  740  through  745. 

Priam  returns,  accompanied  by  Automedon,  Alcimus,  and 
servants  bearing  gifts.  This  scene  may  be  made  a  Greek 
pageant  with  variety  in  costuming,  and  in  the  character  of  the 
gifts,  and  with  a  picturesque  arrangement  of  the  procession. 

Achilles  speaks:  lines  749  through  785.  Cut  liberally 
according  to  the  climax  chosen  for  the  episode.  This  may 
be  either  the  invitation  to  the  feast,  or  Achilles'  final  sur- 
render to  the  will  of  Priam.  In  the  latter  case  a  short 
speech  should  be  introduced  for  Achilles,  directing  Autom- 
edon and  Alcimus  to  prepare   a  feast  in   Priam's  honor. 


Purpose  and  Method  53 

Preparation  for  the  feast  (handmaidens  bearing  dishes, 
tables,  food,  etc.)  will  make  an  impressive  background. 
The  climax  is  reached  in  Achilles'  complete  surrender  to 
Priam's  will. 

V.     THE  ODYSSEY 
Butcher  and  Lang's  Translation 

The  Assembly  at  Ithaca,  Book  II,  may  be  utilized 
as  a  unit  for  dramatization.  The  stage  setting  is  similar 
to  that  described  for  the  first  scene  from  the  Iliad.  The 
curtain  rises  on  the  Assembly  at  the  moment  of  the 
entrance  of  Telemachus,  who  sits  down  in  his  father's  place. 
The  first  change  necessary  is  the  shortening  of  the  long 
speech  of  Telemachus  beginning.  Old  man,  he  is  not  far  off. 
Several  other  speeches  will  demand  the  same  treatment. 
The  episode  of  the  eagles  will  have  to  be  related  by  some 
one  in  the  Assembly  as  an  omen  observed  by  him.  Hali- 
therses,  who  interprets  the  omen,  may  tell  the  incident  as  an 
experience  on  his  way  to  the  Assembly.  The  passionate 
speech  of  Leiocritus  addressed  to  Mentor  brings  the 
Assembly  to  a  dramatic  end.  Telemachus  remains  behind, 
cast  down  by  the  failure  of  his  appeal.  He  addresses 
a  prayer  to  Athene,  who  appears  at  its  close  in  the  form 
of  Mentor.  Th'e  scene  concludes  with  the  departure  of 
the  two  in  opposite  directions  to  make  ready  for  the 
voyage. 

There  are  numerous  scenes  from  the  Odyssey  that  may 
be  woven  into  a  series  of  beautiful  tableaux,  showing  the 
place  of  women  in  the  Greek  household.  Athene,  Pene- 
lope, Arete,  Nausicaa,  Helen,  the  faithful  Eurycleia,  hand- 
maidens, and  dancing  girls,  furnish  a  list  rich  in  suggestion. 

The  entertainment  of  Odysseus  in  Phaeacia,  Book  VIII, 
lends  itself  to  dramatic  treatment  of  a  sort  that  ought  to 


54  Dramatization 

make  a  strong  appeal  to  first  year  high  school  boys  especi- 
ally. This  should  be  a  real  out-of-door  scene.  The  school 
yard  of  most  high  schools  will  be  adapted  to  the  purpose. 

Alcinoiis  has  brought  Odysseus  to  the  assembly  place 
where  the  Phaeacian  youths  are  already  gathered  to  do 
honor  to  the  stranger  in  feats  of  strength  and  skill.  As 
the  curtain  rises,  the  crowd  is  divided  into  merry  groups. 
Alcinoiis  enters  from  one  side  in  conversation  with 
Odysseus.  The  arrangement  of  the  stage  is  the  same  as 
for  the  Assembly  in  the  Iliad,  except  that  the  seats  are 
more  in  the  background,  leaving  an  open  space  for  the 
games. 

At  the  first  words  of  Alcinoiis,  the  talking  stops,  and  the 
assembled  Phaeacians  listen  to  the  commands  of  the  king 
beginning,  Hearke7i,  ye  captains  and  counsellors  of  the  Phae- 
acians. Change  Let  us  go  forth  anon  and  make  trial  of  divers 
games  to  Let  us  make  trial,  etc. 

He  conducts  Odysseus  to  the  place  of  honor  in  the 
Assembly,  and  the  other  spectators  seat  themselves. 
The  games  are  led  by  the  sons  of  the  king  of  Phaeacia. 
Each  sport  mentioned  by  Alcinoiis — boxing,  wrestling,  leap- 
ing, foot-racing — may  be  represented.  In  these  daj'^s  of 
athletics  in  high  schools,  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  train- 
ing boys  for  such  contests.  Remarks  for  Alcinoiis, 
Odysseus,  and  others  must  be  interpolated.  A  master  of 
ceremonies  arranges  the  program  and  sees  to  its  execution. 

The  text  itself  furnishes  the  dialogue  for  the  rest  of  the 
scene.  The  challenge  to  Odysseus,  his  acceptance,  his  ex- 
hibition of  strength  in  throwing  the  discus,  the  aid  of  Athene 
in  human  form,  all  contribute  to  a  strong  climax.  The 
speech  of  Alcinoiis  in  answer  to  Odysseus  may  be  slightly 
cut.  The  scene  is  brought  to  a  close  with  the  dance  as 
described  in  the  text. 


Purpose  and  Method  55 

D.     THE  BALLAD 
/.    RODIN  HOOD  AND   THE  BEGGAR 

A  Robin  Hood  ballad  suitable  for  dramatization  by  high 
school  pupils  is  Robin  Hood  and  the  Beggar  as  given  in  Vol. 
Ill,  page  187,  of  British  Poets,  Riverside  Press,  1880. 
This  ballad  might  be  very  easily  dramatized  in  four  scenes, 
as  suggested  below.  The  setting  throughout  is  the  green- 
wood. 

Scene  I 

Robin  Hood  is  discovered  walking  through  the  forest; 
he  meets  the  beggar;  they  fight;  Robin  is  worsted  and  the 
beggar  goes  scot  free.  For  a  description  of  the  dress  of 
the  beggar  see  stanzas  3,  4,  5,  6.  -Action  begins  at  stanza  7; 
conversation  follows,  stanzas  8  through  20,  substitution  of  a 
phrase  being  necessary  now  and  then  for  such  expressions 
as.  Says  good  Robin,  The  beggar  answered  cankeredly,  etc. 
The  fight  is  described  in  stanzas  21  through  26.  The  scene 
closes  with  the  remarks  of  the  beggar,  stanzas  27  and  28,  and 
his  departure,  leaving  Robin  lying  prone,  stanzas  29  and  30. 

Scene  II 

The  scene  opens  with  the  chance  discovery  of  Robin's 
plight  by  three  of  his  men,  stanza  1  of  the  Second  Part  of  the 
ballad.  They  bring  Robin  back  to  consciousness  by  throw- 
ing cold  water  in  his  face,  stanzas  2,  3,  4.  Conversation 
begins  between  the  men  and  Robin  in  stanza  5.  In  stanzas 
6  through  10,  Robin  tells  his  experience  and  bids  his  men 
avenge  him.  It  might  be  well  here  to  interrupt  Robin  by 
inserting  two  or  three  speeches  for  the  men.  In  stanzas  11 
through  15,  the  men  plan  to  overtake  the  beggar  and  Robin 
warns  them  to  beware  of  his  pike-staflP.  In  stanza  16,  two  of 
the  men  depart,  leaving  their  companion  to  care  for  Robin. 


56  Dramatization 

Scene  III 

The  scene  opens  as  the  beggar  is  hurrying  along.  The 
two  men  are  hiding  behind  a  tree.  Suddenly  they  leap 
upon  him,  stanza  22,  and  dcsj)oil  him,  stanza  24.  The 
appeal  of  the  beggar  comes  next,  stanzas  27  and  28;  then  the 
retort  of  the  men,  stanzas  29  and  30.  The  beggar's  explan- 
ation and  proposal  occur  in  stanzas  35  through  38.  The 
beggar  is  freed  in  stanza  39.  The  men  hold  council, 
stanzas  39,  40,  41;  they  tell  the  beggar  their  decision,  stanza 
42.  Stanzas  44  through  46  give  the  action  of  the  beggar 
preparatory  to  the  climax,  flinging  the  meal  in  the  men's 
faces,  stanza  47.  His  chastisement  of  the  men  occurs  next, 
stanzas  49  and  50.  The  men  start  to  run  away,  stanza 
51;  the  beggar  addresses  them,  stanzas  52  and  53.  Stanzas 
54  and  55  tell  of  the  beggar's  escape. 

Scene  IV 

This  scene  discovers  Robin  half  reclining  on  the  ground, 
his  companion  keeping  watch  by  his  side.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  the  men  come  running  in  all  covered  with  meal.  Robin 
greets  them,  stanza  56,  and  inquires  why  they  are  covered 
with  meal,  stanza  57.  They  tell  their  story,  stanza  60 
through  62.  The  ballad  is  here  in  indirect  discourse.  It 
must  be  turned  into  speeches  for  the  men.  The  thought 
of  the  last  stanza  should  be  suggested  by  inserting  a  speech 
for  Robin  with  appropriate  action. 


E.     THE  LYRIC 

/.     SHORT  LYRICS 

For  treatment  similar  to  that  applied  to  the  Spring 
Fantasy,  the  following  themes  are  suggested:  Winter, 
worked   up,    through    various    poets,    into    a    Christmas 


Purpose  and  Method  57 

celebration;  Greek  Characters  from  the  poets,  forming  a 
series  of  classic  tableaux ;  Fairy-lore  and  the  World  of  Mys- 
tery, from  poems  dealing  with  the  supernatural.  The 
field  is  almost  inexhaustible. 

II.     V ALLEGRO  AND  IL  PENSEROSO 

Jobu  Milton 

The  many  charming  pictures  found  in  U Allegro  and 
//  Penseroso  can  be  profitably  visualized  for  high  school 
use.  Such  presentation  helps  materially  in  interpreting  the 
poems.  The  reader,  in  this  case,  may  be  dressed  in 
cap  and  gown  to  impersonate  the  young  Milton.  As 
in  other  similar  dramatic  adaptations,  he  stands  far 
to  one  side  of  the  stage,  so  that  he  in  no  way  becomes 
a  part  of  the  stage  picture.  The  following  tableaux  are 
suggested. 

L'Allegro 
Tableau  I.     Banishment  of  Melancholy 
The   stage   presents   a   spring   landscape.     Melancholy, 
clad  in  somber  robes,  enters  and  moves  about  as  if  seeking 
a  safe  retreat  during  the  reading  of  the  opening  lines.     At 
the  conclusion.  Melancholy  disappears. 
Reading.     (Lines  1  through  10.) 

Tableau  II.  Summons  of  Mirth 
As  Melancholy  disappears,  Mirth  comes  tripping  in,  fol- 
lowed by  her  companions,  Jest,  Jollity,  Quips,  Cranks, 
Wiles,  Xods,  Becks,  Smiles,  Sport,  Laughter,  and  Liberty, 
appropriately  gowned  in  Greek  robes,  flowers  garlanded 
about  them.     At  the  closing  lines, 

Coyne,  and  trip  it,  as  yon  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 


58  Dramatization 

Mirth  takes  Liberty  by  the  hand  and  leads  in  a   merry 
dance.     Music. 

Reading.     (Lines  11  through  36.) 

Tableau  III.     Country  Dance  on  the  Green 

As  the  curtain  rises,  many  girls  and  boys  come  trooping 
in,  dressed  in  picturescjue  country  fashion.  One  or  two 
have  vioHns  on  which  they  are  playing  a  merry  tune.  They 
form  for  dancing,  and  as  the  lines  are  read  go  through 
with  the  figures  of  a  country  dance. 

Reading.     (Lines  91  through  99.) 

Tableau  IV.     Fireside  Scene 

A  merry  group  of  country  lads  and  lasses  are  seated  about 
a  blazing  fireplace,  cracking  nuts,  and  telling  tales. 
Reading.     (Lines  100  through  116.) 

Tableau  V.     V Allegro 

The  scene  is  a  spring  landscape.  L'Allegro  is  discovered 
alone,  seated  on  a  rustic  bench  listening  entranced,  to  music, 
as  the  concluding  lines  of  the  poem  are  read. 

Reading.     (Lines  135  through  poem.) 

n  Penseroso 
Tableau   I.     Banishment  of  Joys 

The  scene  presents  an  autumn  landscape.  Several  girls 
gayly  dressed  enter  and  frolic  about  the  stage  during  the 
reading.     All  rush  madly  out  as  the  last  line  is  read. 

Reading.     (Lines  1  through  10.) 

Tableau  II.     Summons  of  Melancholy 

As  the  lines  for  this  tableau  are  read,  ISIelancholy, 
arrayed  in  soft,  clinging  robes  of  somber  hue,  enters  "with 
even  step,  and  musing  gait."     She  is  followed  by  her  com- 


Purpose  and  Method  59 

panions,  Peace,  Quiet,  Fast,  Leisure,  and  Contemplation. 
They  join  in  a  stately  march,  which  they  execute  with 
much  grace  to  slow  music. 

Reading.  (Lines  11  through  54;  omitting  17  through 
22  and  25  through  30.) 

Tableau  III.     Fireside  Scene 

II  Penseroso,  dressed  as  a  mediaeval  student,  sits  on  a 
rude  bench  before  a  grate  fire,  which  has  almost  died  out. 
An  open  book  is  on  his  lap,  but  he  is  lost  in  contemplation 
and  gazes  at  the  flickering  logs,  as  the  lines  are  read. 

Reading.      (Lines  73  through  84.) 

Tableau  IV.     II  Penseroso 

II  Penseroso,  garbed  in  monastic  robe,  prayer  book  in 
hand,  paces  back  and  forth  Avith  measured  tread,  while 
solemn  music  is  softly  played. 

Reading.     (Lines  155  through  poem.) 


60  Dramatization 

I.     Texts  Used  for  Specimen  Dramatizations 

Arnold,  Matthew.     (Sohrab  and  Riistum.) 

Shorter  English  Poems.     (The    Lake    English    Classics, 

Scott,  Forcsman  and  Company.) 
Browning,  Robert.     {Song froTn  Pippa  Passes.) 

Selected  Poems.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Butcher,  S.  H.  and  Lang,  A.      (Translators) 

The  Odyssey  of  Homer.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey.     {The  Prologue.) 

Selections  from  Chaucer.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Cooper,  James  F.      The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Dickens,  Charles.     A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Eliot,  George.     Silas  Marjier. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Gayley,  C.  M.  and  Flaherty,  M.  C.     {Robin  Hood  Ballads.) 

Poetry  of  the  People.     (Ginn  and  Company.) 
Goldsmith,  Oliver.      The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel. 

{David  Swan  and  The  Ambitious  Guest.) 

Twice-Told  Tales.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 

{Feathertop.) 

Mosses  from  anOld  Manse.    (The  Macmillan  Company.) 
Irving,  Washington.     {The  Adventure  of  My  Aunt.) 

Tales  of  a  Traveller.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Lang,  A.,  Leaf,  W.,  and  Mj^ers,  E.     (Translators) 

The  Iliad  of  Homer.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 
Longfellow,  Henry  W.     {Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.) 

Narrative  Poems.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Milton,  John.     {Comus.) 

Minor  Poems.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 


Purpose  and  Method  61 

Palgrave,  Francis  T. 

The  Golden  Treasury.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 

(Herrick's  To  Daffodils;  Corinnd's  Maying.) 

(Wordsworth's  The  Daffodils.) 
Poe,  Edgar  Allan.     ( The  Purloined  Letter.) 

Poems  and  Tales.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Scott,  Sir  ^Yalter.     Ivanhoe. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Stevenson,  R.  L. 

Kidnapped.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 

Treasure  Island.    ,  (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord.     {The  Brook;  Gareth  and  Lynette; 
Lancelot  and  Elaine.) 

Selected  Poems.     (The  Lake  English  Classics.) 
Thackeray,  W.  M.     Henry  Esmond. 

(The  Lake  English  Classics.) 

II.     Texts  Used  for  Further  Suggestions 

Child,  Francis  J.     (Editor).     {Robin  Hood  and  the  Beggar.) 

Ballads,  Vol.  Ill,  British  Poets.     (Houghton,  Osgood  and 
Company.) 
Davis,  Richard  Harding.     ( The  Hungry  Man  Was  Fed.) 

J'an  Bibber  and  Others.     (Harper  Brothers.) 
Tennyson,  Alfred.     {The  Holy  Grail  and  The  May  Queen.) 

The  Works  of  Tennyson.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 
Quiller-Couch,  Arthur  T.      {The  First  Parish  Meeting.) 

Wandering  Heath.     (Charles  Scribner's  Sons.) 


62  Dramatization 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Psychology  and  Pedagogy  of  Dramatization 

Briggs,   T.   H.   and   Coffman,   L.    D. — Reading  in   Public 

Schools.     (Row,  Peterson  and  Company,  Chicago.) 
Chamberlain,    A.    F.      The    Child   and    Childhood   in   Folk 

Thought.     (The  Macmillan  Company.)      (See  chap,  xvi. 

The  Child  as  Actor  a?id  Inventor.) 
Chubb,  Percival.  Festivals  and  Plays.   (Harper  and  Brothers.) 
Deahl,  J.  N.     Imitation  in  Education,  Its  Nature,  Scope, 

and  Sigyiificance.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 
Groos,  Karl.     The  Play  of  Man.     (D.  Appleton  and  Com- 
pany.) 
Grosse,  Ernst.      The  Beginnings  of  Art.     (D.  Appleton  and 

Company.) 
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Matthews,  J.  Brander.     A  Study  of  the  Drama.     (Houghton 

Mifflin  Company.) 
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Bryant,  Sarah  Cone.     Stories  to  Tell  Children.     (Houghton 

Mifflin  Company.) 
Gomme,  Alice  B.     Children's  Singing  Games  icith  the  Tunes 

to  Which  They  Are  Sung.     (D.  Nutt,  London,  1894.) 
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Laselle,    Mary   A.     Dramatization   of  School   Classics.     A 

Dramatic  Reader  for  Grammar  and  Secondary  Schools. 


Purpose  and  Method  63 

(Educational  Publishing  Company.)  (The  only  dupli- 
cates of  material  used  in  the  present  volume  are  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  and  Ivanhoe.  The  scenes  chosen  are  differ- 
ent, however.  In  the  first,  Moses  at  the  Fair  is  drama- 
tized; in  the  second,  The  Archery  Contest.) 

Miller,  G.  M.  The  Dramatic  Element  in  the  Popular 
Ballad.     (The  University  of  Cincinnati  Press.) 

Stearns,  Charles.  Dramatic  Dialogues  for  the  Use  of  Schools. 
Published  in  the  year  1798,  at  Leominster,  Massachu- 
setts. (T^is  is  a  curious  old  volume.  Its  purpose  is 
purely  pedagogical  and  ethical.) 

Stevenson,  Augusta.  Children's  Classics  in  Dramatic  Form. 
Riverside  Educational  Monographs.  (In  five  books 
for  the  grades.) 

Woodbury,  Sarah  E.  Dramatization  in  the  Grammar 
Grades.     (Baumgardt  Publishing  Company.) 

Stage  Setting  and  Costuming 

Abrahams,  E.  B.  Greek  Dress.  (J.  Murray,  London, 
1908.     (Chap,  ii,  Homeric,  with  plates.) 

Calthrop,  Dion  Claj^ton.  English  Costume.  (A.  and  C. 
Black,  London,  190G.)  4  vols.:  (1,  Early  English;  2, 
Middle  Ages;  3,  Tudor  and  Stuart;  4,  Georgian — Excel- 
lent.) 

Catlin,  George.  North  American  Indians.  (  J.  Grant, 
Edinburgh,  1903.)     400  illustrations. 

Clinch,  George.  English  Costume.  (Mcthuen  and  Com- 
pany, London,  1909.)  (One  vol. — From  pre-historic 
times  to  the  end  of  18th  century. — Rich  in  plates.) 

Earle,  Alice  Morse.  Two  Centuries  of  Costume  in  America. 
Two  vols.     (The  Macmillan  Company.) 

Evans,  Maria  M.  Chapters  on  Greek  Dress.  (The  Mac- 
millan Company.)      (With  plates.     Chap,  ii,  Homeric.) 


G4  Dramatization 

Falke,  Jakob  von.     Greece  and  Rome,   Their  Life  and  Art. 

(Henry   Holt   and    Company.)     Translated   by   ^V.    H. 

Browne.     (Rich  in  plates,  showing  furniture,  dress,  etc.) 
Gulick,    Charles    B.      The    Life    of    the    Ancient     Greeks. 

(D.    Appleton    and    Company.)      (Excellent.     Rich    in 

illustrations  of  buildings,  furniture,  household  utensils, 

dress,  etc.) 
Heath,  Sidney.     Pilgrim  Life  in  the  Middle  Ages.     (Hough- 
ton Mifflin  Company.)      (See  Pilgrims,  Customs,  Tokens, 

chap,  vi.) 
McClellan,   Elisabeth.     Historic  Dress  in  America,    1607- 

1800.     (G.    W.    Jacobs    and    Company,   Philadelphia.) 

(Many  Plates.) 
Peck,  H.   T.     (Editor.) — Harper's  Dictionary  of  Classical 

and  Literary  Antiquities.     (American  Book  Company.), 
Planche,  J.  R. — History  of  British  Costume.    (TheMacmillan 

company.)      (Chap,  xxiii,  National  Costume  of  Scotland.) 
Saunders,  John  (Editor.) — The  Canterbury  Tales.     (J.  M. 

Dent  &  Sons,  London,   ISO^.)      (Illustrated — Good  for 

costumes  and  customs.) 
Traill,  H.  D.  (Editor.)— SociaZ  England.    (6  vols.)     (Cassell 

and  Company.) 
Ward,   H.   Snowden.      The  Canterbury  Pilgrimages.     (Lip- 

pincott  Company.)     (Excellent  illustrations.) 

INIusic 

(Old  airs  suitable  for  Robin  Hood  ballads  and  songs  in 
the  dramatizations  of  Chaucer  and  Scott.) 
Chubb,  Percival.  Festivals  and  Plays.   (Harper  and  Brothers.) 
Duncan,  Edmondstoune.      The  Story  of  Minstrelsy.     (The 

Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company,  London.) 
Jackson,  Vincent — English  Melodies.     (From  the  13th  to 

the  18th  century.)      (J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons,  London.) 


FIRST  YEAR 


TREASURE  ISLAND 

Eobert  Louis  Stevenson 

PREFATORY    NOTE 

Chaps,  xxviii,  xxix,  and  xxx  in  Treasure  Island  make  a  good  dramatic 
unit  suitable  for  two  scenes:  In  the  Enemy's  Camp  and  The  Way  Out. 
The  dialogue  is  practically  unchanged,  though  much  abridged,  especially 
Siher's  long  speeches.  The  only  important  change  of  situation  occurs 
in  the  interview  between  Dr.  Livcsey  and  Jim  in  scene  ii.  In  the 
dramatic  adaptation  this  takes  place  in  the  block-house,  the  men 
going  outside,  while  in  the  story  Jim  and  the  Doctor  retire.  The 
reason  is  obvious:  no  change  of  setting  is  necessary  and  the  action 
is  continuous.  Other  slight  variations  are  made  by  beginning  scene  i 
with  Jim's  arrival,  which  occurs  in  the  last  part  of  the  preceding 
chapter,  and  ending  scene  ii  with  Silver's  speech  at  the  opening  of 
chap.  xxxi. 

It  goes  without  saying,  that  here,  as  in  all  other  dramatizations  in 
which  pipes  and  tobacco  are  required  as  stage  properties,  the  smoking  is 
simulated;  and  that  here,  as  in  all  other  drinking  scenes,  a  substitute 
for  liquor  is  used. 

Scene  I 
In  the  Enemy's  Camp 

Characters : 
Silver.  John,  the  wounded  man. 

Jim  Hawldns.  George. 

Morgan.  Dick,  and  others. 

The  stage  represents  the  interior  of  the  block-house.  The 
furniture  consists  of  two  couches,  made  of  houghs  and  covered 
with  blankets,  for  Silver  and  John,  the  icounded  man;  logs; 


8  Dramatization  [First  Year 

boxes;  and  a  large  cask,  containi?ig  a  liquid  to  represent 
brandy.  As  the  curtain  rises.  Silver  and  his  men  are  dis- 
covered asleep.  The  stage  is  very  dimly  lighted.  Jim  enters 
stealthily,  stumbles  against  a  box  and  overturns  it.  The  noise 
awakens  the  men,  who  spring  to  their  feet,  e.rcept  the  wounded 
man,  who  raises  his  head  und  supports  himself  on  his  elbow. 

Silver.  Who  goes?  [Jim  turns  to  escape,  strikes  against  one 
of  the  men,  and  runs  into  the  arms  of  Silver]  Bring  a  light, 
Dick.  [Dick  comes  at  once  with  a  torch  or  lantern] 
Jim! — So  here's  Jim  Hawkins,  shiver  ray  timbers! 
dropped  in  Hke,  eh? — Well,  come,  I  take  that  friendly. 
[Sits  down  on  the  brandy  cask  and  fills  his  pipe.  Jim 
stands  where  Silver  has  placed  him,  ivith  back  against  the 
wall,  looking  dazed]  You,  gentlemen,  bring  yourselves 
to!  You  needn't  stand  up  for  Mr.  Hawkins;  he'll 
excuse  you! — And  so,  Jim,  [busy  with  pipe]  here  you  are, 
and  quite  a  pleasant  surprise  for  poor  old  John!  I  see 
you  were  smart  when  first  I  set  my  eyes  on  you ;  but  this 
here  gets  away  from  me  clean,  it  do!  [Jim  starts  forward 
as  if  to  speak,  but  drops  back  against  the  wall]  Now,  you 
see,  Jim,  so  be  as  you  are  here,  I'll  give  you  a  piece  of 
my  mind.  I've  always  liked  you,  I  have,  for  a  lad  of 
spirit,  and  the  picter  of  my  own  self  when  I  was  young 
and  handsome.  I  always  wanted  you  to  jine  and  take 
your  share,  and  die  a  gentleman,  and  now,  my  cock, 
you've  got  to.  Cap'n  Smollett's  a  fine  seaman,  as 
I'll  own  up  to  any  day,  but  stiff  on  discipline.  "Dooty 
is  dooty,"  says  he,  and  right  he  is.  Just  you  keep  clear 
of  the  cap'n.  The  doctor  himself  is  gone  dead  again 
you — "ungrateful  scamp"  was  what  he  said;  and  the 
short  and  the  long  of  the  whole  story  is  about  here: 
you  can't  go  back  to  your  own  lot,  for  they  won't  have 
you;  and,  without  you  start  a  third  ship's  company  all 


First  Year] 


Treasure  Island  9 


by  yourself,  which  might  be  lonely,  you '11  have  to  jine 
with  Cap'n  Silver.  I  don't  say  nothing  as  to  your 
being  in  our  hands,  though  there  you  are,  and  you  may 
lay  to  it.  I'm  all  for  argyment;  I  never  seen  good  come 
out  o'  threatening.  If  you  like  the  service,  well,  you'll 
jine;  and  if  you  don't,  Jim,  why,  you're  free  to  answer 
no — free  and  welcome,  shipmate;  and  if  fairer  can  be 
said  by  mortal  seaman,  shiver  my  sides! 

Jim.     [In  a  tremulous  voice]     Am  I  to  answer,  then? 

Silver.  Lad,  no  one's  a-pressing  of  you.  Take  your 
bearings.  None  of  us  won't  hurry  you,  mate;  time  goes 
so  pleasant  in  your  company,  you  see. 

Jim.  [More  boldly]  Well,  if  I'm  to  choose,  I  declare  I've 
a  right  to  know  what's  what,  and  why  you're  here,  and 
where  m}'  friends  are. 

Morgan.  "Wot's  wot?" — Ah,  he'd  be  a  lucky  one  as 
knowed  that! 

Silver.  You'll  batten  down  your  hatches  till  you're 
spoke  to,  my  friend.  [To  Jim  more  graciously]  Yester- 
day morning,  Mr.  Hawkins,  in  the  dog-watch,  down 
come  Dr.  Livescy  with  a  flag  of  truce.  Says  he,  "Cap'n 
Silver,  you're  sold  out.  Ship's  gone."  ^Ye  looked  out, 
and  by  thunder!  the  old  ship  was  gone.  I  never  seen 
a  pack  o'  fools  look  fishier!  "Well,"  says  the  doctor, 
"let's  bargain."  We  bargained,  him  and  I,  and  here 
we  are:  stores — block-house — firewood.  As  for  them, 
they  've  tramped ;  I  don't  know  where 's  they  are.  [Draw- 
ing quietly  at  his  pipe]  And  lest  you  should  take  it  into 
that  head  of  yours,  that  you  was  included  in  the  treaty, 
here's  the  last  word  that  was  said:  "How  many  are  you," 
says  I,  "to  leave?"  "Four,"  says  he — "four,  and  one 
of  us  wounded.  As  for  that  boy,  I  don't  know  where  he 
is,  confound  him,"  says  he,  "nor  I  don't  much  care. 
We're  about  sick  of  liini."     Those  was  liis  words. 


10  Dramatization  rrirstYear 

Jim.     Is  that  all? 

Silver.     Well,  it's  all  that  you're  to  hear,  my  son. 

Jim.     And  now  I  am  to  choose? 

Silver.     And  now  you  are  to  choose,  and  you  may  lay  to 
that. 

Jim.  Well,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  but  I  know  pretty  well 
what  I  have  to  look  for.  Let  the  w^orst  come  to  the 
worst,  it's  little  I  care.  I've  seen  too  many  die  since 
I  fell  in  with  you.  But  there's  a  thing  or  two  I  have  to 
tell  you,  [excitedly]  and  the  first  is  this:  here  you  are 
in  a  bad  way:  ship  lost,  treasure  lost,  men  lost;  your 
whole  business  gone  to  wreck;  and  if  you  want  to  know 
who  did  it — it  was  I!  [Men  loolc  at  each  other  in  amaze- 
ment] I  was  in  the  apple  barrel  the  night  we  sighted 
land,  and  I  heard  you,  John,  and  you,  Dick  Johnson,  and 
Hands,  who  is  now  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  told 
every  word  you  said  before  the  hour  was  out.  And  as 
for  the  schooner,  it  w^as  I  Avho  cut  her  cable,  and  it  was  I 
who  killed  the  men  you  had  aboard  of  her,  and  it  was  I 
who  brought  her  w'here  you'll  never  see  her  more,  not 
one  of  you.  The  laugh's  on  my  side;  I've  had  the  top 
of  this  business  from  the  first;  I  no  more  fear  you  than 
I  fear  a  fly.  Kill  me,  if  you  please,  or  spare  me.  But 
one  thing  I'll  say,  and  no  more;  if  you  spare  me,  by- 
gones are  bygones,  and  when  you  fellows  are  in  court  for 
piracy,  I'll  save  you  all  I  can.  It's  for  you  to  choose. 
Kill  another  and  do  yourselves  no  good,  or  spare  me  and 
keep  a  witness  to  save  you  from  the  gallows.  [Me?i  sit 
staring  at  Jim]  And  now,  Mr.  Silver,  I  believe  you  're  the 
best  man  here,  and  if  things  go  the  worst,  I  '11  take  it 
kind  of  you  to  let  the  doctor  know  the  way  I  took  it. 

Silver.     [Significantly]     I  '11  bear  it  in  mind. 

Morgan.     I'll  put  one  to  that!     It  was  him  that  knowed 
Black  Dog. 


First  Year]  TreaSUTG    Islwid  11 

Silver.  Well,  and  see  here.  I'll  put  another  again  to 
that,  by  thunder!  for  it  was  this  same  boy  that  faked 
the  chart  from  Billy  Bones.  First  and  last,  we've 
split  upon  Jim  Hawkins! 

Morgan.     Then  here  goes!     [Spriyigs  up  and  draws  knife] 

Silver.  Avast,  there!  Who  are  you,  Tom  Morgan? 
Did  you  think  you  was  cap'n  here?  By  the  powers, 
but  I'll  teach  you  better!  Cross  me,  and  you'll  go 
where  many  a  good  man's  gone  before  you,  first  and 
last,  these  thirty  year  back!  There's  never  a  man 
looked  me  between  the  eyes  and  seen  a  good  day  a'ter- 
wards,  Tom  Morgan,  you  may  lay  to  that. 

Morgan  pauses;   a   hoarse  murmur  arises  among  the 
others. 

John.     Tom's  right. 

George.  I  stood  hazing  long  enough  from  one.  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  '11  be  hazed  by  you,  John  Silver. 

Silver.  Did  any  of  you  gentlemen  want  to  have  it  out 
with  me?  [Silver  bends  forward,  pipe  still  in  hand]  You 
know  the  way! — Well,  I'm  ready!  Take  a  cutlass, 
him  that  dares !  [No  man  stirs]  That's  your  sort,  is  it? 
[Scornfully]  Well,  you're  a  gay  lot  to  look  at.  Not 
worth  much  to  fight,  you  ain't.  P'r'aps  you  can  under- 
stand King  George's  English.  I'm  cap'n  here  by  'lection. 
I'm  cap'n  here  because  I'm  the  best  man  by  a  long 
sea-mile.  You  won't  fight,  as  gentlemen  o'  fortune 
should;  then  by  thunder  you'll  obey,  and  you  may  lay 
to  it!  I  like  that  boy  now;  I  never  seen  a  better  boy 
than  that.  He's  more  a  man  than  any  pair  of  you! 
Let  me  see  him  that'll  lay  a  hand  on  him  —  that's 
what  I  say,  and  you  may  lay  to  it.  [Jim  stands  straight 
against  the  wall,  looking  more  hopeful.  Silver  leans 
back  against  the  other  wall,  pipe  in  mouth,  arms  crossed, 
calm,    but    watching    the    men   furtively.      The  men  draw 


12  Dramatization  [First  Year 

together  and  whisper]      You  seem  to  have  a  lot  to  say. 
Pipe  up  and  let  me  hear  it,  or  lay  to. 

Dick.  This  crew's  dissatisfied;  this  crew  has  its  rights  like 
other  crews;  and  by  your  own  rules,  I  take  it  we  can  talk 
together.  I  ax  your  pardon,  sir,  acknowledging  you  to 
be  capting  at  this  present;  but  I  claim  my  right  and 
steps  outside  for  a  council.     [Goes  out] 

One  of  the  Men.  [Saluting,  follows]  According  to 
rules. 

Morgan.     Foc's'le'  council. 

All  march  out.     Jim  and  Silver  are  left  alone. 

Silver.  [Beckons  to  Jim.  Both  sit  down]  Now  look  you 
here,  Jim  Hawkins,  you  're  within  half  a  plank  of  death, 
and  what 's  a  long  sight  worse,  of  torture.  They're  going 
to  throw  me  off.  But  you  mark,  I  stand  by  you  through 
thick  and  thin.  I  didn't  mean  to;  no,  not  till  you  spoke 
up.  I  was  about  desperate  to  lose  that  much  blunt, 
and  be  hanged  into  the  bargain.  But  I  see  you  was  the 
right  sort.  I  says  to  myself:  "You  stand  by  Hawkins, 
John,  and  Hawkins '11  stand  by  you.  You're  his  last 
card,  and  by  the  living  thunder,  John,  he's  yours! 
Back  to  back,  says  I.  You  save  your  witness  and  he'll 
save  your  neck." 

Jim.     You  mean  all  is  lost? 

Silver.  Ay,  by  gum,  I  do!  Ship  gone,  neck  gone — that's 
the  size  of  it.  Once  I  looked  into  that  bay,  Jim  Hawkins, 
and  seen  no  schooner — well  I'm  tough,  but  I  gave  out. 
As  for  that  lot  and  their  council,  mark  me,  they're 
outright  fools  and  cowards.  I'll  save  your  life — if  so  be 
as  I  can — from  them.  But  see  here,  Jim — tit  for  tat — 
you  save  Long  John  from  swinging. 

Jim.     What  I  can  do,  that  I'll  do. 

Silver.  It's  a  bargain!  You  speak  up  plucky,  and,  by 
thunder!  I've  a  chance.     [Hobbles  to  torch  to  light  pipe 


First  Year]  Trccisure  Islaucl  13 

again]  Understand  me,  Jim,  —  I've  a  head  on  my 
shoulders,  I  have.  I  know  you've  got  that  ship  safe 
somewheres.  How  you  done  it  I  don't  know.  I  ask  no 
questions,  nor  I  won't  let  others.  I  know  when  a  game's 
up,  I  do;  and  I  know  a  lad  that's  staunch!  [Drawing 
brandy  from  the  cask  into  a  tin  cwp]  Will  you  taste, 
messmate?  [Jim  shakes  his  head]  Well,  I'll  take  a 
drain  myself,  Jim.  I  need  a  caulker,  for  there's  trouble 
on  hand.  And  talking  o'  trouble,  why  did  the  doctor 
give  me  the  chart,  Jim? 

Jim.     [Astonished]     Give  you  the  chart! 

Silver.  Ay,  that  he  did!  And  there's  something  under 
that,  no  doubt  —  bad  or  good. 

Takes  another  swalhno  of  brandy  as  he  hears  the  men 
returning. 

Jim.     [Looking  out  of  a  loophole]     Here  they  come! 
Returns  to  former  position. 

Silvf:r.  Well,  let  'em  come,  lad — let  'em  come.  I've 
still  a  shot  in  my  locker!  [The  men  stand  huddled 
inside  the  door;  then  push  one  of  their  number  forward. 
He  advances  sloivly,  awkwardly,  holding  closed  right 
hand  in  front  of  him]  Stop  up,  lad — I  won't  eat  you. 
Hand  it  over,  lubber.  I  know  the  rules,  I  do;  I  won't 
hurt  a  depytation. 

The    man    slips    something    into    Silver's    hand,    and 
slinks  back  hastily  to  the  group. 

Silver.  [Looks  at  what  he  holds  in  his  hand]  The  black 
spot!  I  thought  so.  Where  might  you  have  got  the 
paper?  Why,  hillo!  Look  here,  now;  this  ain't  lucky! 
You've  gone  and  cut  this  out  of  a  Bible.  What  fool's 
cut  a  Bible? 

Morgan.  [To  men]  Ah,  there  I  there!  Wot  did  I  say? 
No  good '11  come  o'  that,  I  said. 

Silver.     Well,  you've  about  fixed   it  now,   among  you. 


14  Dramatization  rrirstYear 

You'll  all  swing  now,  I  reckon.  What  soft-headed 
lubber  had  a  Bible? 

One  of  Mkn.     It  was  Dick. 

Silver.  Dick,  was  it?  Then  Dick  can  get  to  prayers. 
He's  seen  his  slice  of  luck,  has  Dick. 

George.  Belay  that  talk,  John  Silver.  This  crew  has 
tipped  you  the  black  spot  in  full  council,  as  in  dooty 
bound;  just  you  turn  it  over,  as  in  dooty  bound,  and  see 
what's  wrote  there.     Then  you  can  talk. 

Silver.  Thanky,  George.  You  always  was  brisk  for  busi- 
ness, and  has  the  rules  by  heart,  George,  as  I'm  pleased 
to  see.  Well,  what  is  it,  anyway?  Ah!  "Deposed" — • 
that's  it,  is  it?  Very  pretty  wrote,  to  be  sure;  like  print, 
I  swear.  Your  hand  o'  write,  George?  Why,  you  was 
gettin'  quite  a  leadin'  man  in  this  here  crew.  You'll  be 
cap'n  next,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Just  oblige  me  with 
that  light  again,  will  you?     This  pipe  don't  draw. 

George.  Come,  now,  you  don't  fool  this  crew  no  more. 
You're  a  funny  man,  by  your  account;  but  you're  over 
now,  and  you'll  maybe  step  down  off  that  barrel  and 
help  vote. 

Silver.  [Contcmj)tuously\  I  thought  you  said  you  knowed 
the  rules.  Leastways  if  you  don't,  I  do;  and  I 
wait  here — and  I'm  still  your  cap'n,  mind — till  you 
outs  with  your  grievances,  and  I  reply;  in  the  mean- 
time, your  black  spot  ain't  worth  a  biscuit.  After 
that,  we'll  see. 

George.  Oh,  you  don't  be  under  no  kind  of  apprehen- 
sion; we're  all  square,  we  are.  First,  you've  made  a 
hash  of  this  cruise.  Second,  you  let  the  enemy  out  o' 
this  here  trap  for  nothing.  Why  did  they  want  out? 
I  dunno;  but  its  pretty  plain  they  wanted  it.  Third, 
you  wouldn't  let  us  go  at  them  upon  the  march.  Oh, 
we  see  through  you,   John   Silver;   you   want  to   play 


First  Year]  Treasuve  Island  15 

booty;  that's  what's  wrong  with  you.  And  then, 
fourth,  there's  this  here  boy. 

Silver.     [Qidelly]     Is  that  all? 

George.  P^nough,  too.  AVe'll  all  swing  and  sun-dry  for 
your  bungling. 

Silver.  Well,  now,  look  here,  I  '11  answer  these  four  p  'ints; 
one  after  another  I'll  answer  'em.  I  made  a  hash  o' 
this  cruise,  did  I?  Well,  now,  you  all  know  what  I 
wanted;  and  you  all  know,  if  that  had  been  done,  that 
we'd  a'  been  aboard  the  Hispaniola  this  night  as  ever 
was,  every  man  of  us  alive,  and  fit,  and  full  of  good 
plum-duff,  and  the  treasure  in  the  hold  of  her,  by  thun- 
der! Well,  who  crossed  me?  Who  forced  my  hand,  as 
was  the  lawful  cap'n?  Who  tipped  me  the  black  spot 
the  day  we  landed,  and  began  this  dance?  Ah,  it's  a 
fine  dance — I'm  with  you  there^ — and  looks  mighty  like 
a  hornpipe  in  a  rope 's  end  at  Execution  Dock  by  London 
town,  it  does.  But  who  done  it?  Why,  it  was  Ander- 
son, and  Hands,  and  you,  George  Merry!  And  you're 
the  last  above  board  of  that  same  meddling  crew;  and 
you  have  the  Davy  Jones's  insolence  to  up  and  stand  for 
cap'n  over  me — you,  that  sunk  the  lot  of  us!  By  the 
powers!  but  this  tops  the  stiff  est  yarn  to  nothing. 
[George  and  the  rest  look  at  each  other,  showing  that  Silver's 
words  hare  made  an  impression  on  them]  That's  for 
number  one.  [Wiping  his  broiv]  Why,  I  give  you  my 
word,  I'm  sick  to  speak  to  you.  You've  neither  sense 
nor  memory,  and  I  leave  it  to  fancy  where  your  mothers 
was  that  let  you  come  to  sea.  Sea!  Gentlemen  o' 
fortune!     I  reckon  tailors  is  your  trade. 

Morgan.     Go  on,  John.'    Si)eak  up  to  the  others! 

Silver.  Ah,  the  others!  They're  a  nice  lot,  ain't  they? 
You  say  this  cruise  is  bungled.  Ah !  l)y  gum,  if  you 
could  understand  how  bad  it's  bungled,  you  would  see! 


16  Dramatization  [First  Year 

We're  that  near  the  gibbet,  that  my  neck's  stiff  with 
thinking  on  it.  [Men  shudder.  Some  involuntarily  feel 
of  their  necks]  Now  that 's  about  where  we  are,  thanks 
to  you  fools! 

Ji77i,  eagerly  listening,  makes  a  noise,  drawing  to  him- 
self the  attention  of  the  men. 

George.     [Sidlenly]     The  boy! 

Silver.     If  you  want  to  know  about  number  four,  and 

that  boy,  why,  shiver  my  timbers!     Isn't  he  a  hostage? 

Kill  a  hostage!     No,  not  us;  he  might  be  our  last  chance! 

The  men  mutter,  and  confer.     Jim  steps  back,  relieved. 

Morgan.    Why  wouldn't  you  let  us  go  at  'em  on  the  march? 

Silver.  Number  three,  eh?  Well,  there's  a  deal  to  say 
to  number  three!  Maybe  you  don 't  count  it  nothing  to 
have  a  real  college  doctor  come  to  see  you  everyday.  You, 
John,  with  your  head  broke — or  you,  George  Merry,  with 
your  ague  fits,  and  your  eyes,  this  very  minute,  the  color 
of  lemon  peel!  And  maybe  you  didn't  know  there  was  a 
consort  coming,  either?  [Men  look  at  each  other  in  surprise] 
But  there  is,^ — and  not  so  long  till  then.  And  we'll  see 
who'll  be  glad  to  have  a  hostage  when  it  come  to  that. 

George.  [Still  sidlen,  hut  not  so  bold]  Hostage!  We  had 
'em  all  in  our  power.     Why  — 

Silver.  [Interrupting]  I've  kept  number  two  till  the 
last.  I  made  a  bargain — well,  j^ou  came  crawling  on 
your  knees  to  me  to  make  it — you  was  that  down- 
hearted—  [scornfidly]  and  you'd  have  starved,  too,  if  I 
hadn't — but  that's  a  trifle!  You  look  here — that's  why ! 
He  takes  from  his  pocket  a  yellow  paper,  unrolls  it,  and 
throws  it  dramatically  upon  the  floor.  Jim  starts  forward. 
The  men  leap  upon  it. 

Jim.  [Aside]  The  chart!  What  could  the  doctor  have 
meant  by  this! 

Themen  pass  it  backand  forth,  tearing  it  from  one  another. 


First  Year]  Treusuve  Islaud  17 

George.     The  gold  is  ours,  men! 

Morgan.     That's  FHnt,  sure  enough, — J.  F. 

John.  And  a  score  below,  with  a  clove  hitch  to  it;  so  he 
done  ever! 

George.    But  how  are  we  to  getaway  withit,  and  us  no  ship? 

Silver.  [Springing  up  suddenly,  and  supporting  himself 
with  a  hand  against  the  wall]  Now,  I  give  you  warning, 
George.  One  more  word  of  your  sauce,  and  1  '11  call  j' ou 
down  and  fight  you.  How?  Why,  how  do  I  know? 
You  had  ought  to  tell  me  that — you  and  the  rest,  that 
lost  me  my  schooner,  with  your  interference,  burn  you! 
But  not  you,  you  can't;  you  ain't  got  the  invention  of 
a  cockroach.  But  civil  you  can  speak,  and  shall,  George 
Merry,  you  may  lay  to  that. 

Morgan.     That's  fair  enow. 

Silver.  Fair!  I  reckon  so.  You  lost  the  ship;  I  found 
the  treasure.  Who's  the  better  man  at  that?  And  now 
I  resign,  by  thunder!  Elect  whom  you  please  to  be 
your  cap'n  now;  I'm  done  with  it. 

All  OF  Tiip;  men.  Silver!  Barbecue  forever!  Barbecue  for 
cap  'n ! 

Seizing  cups  and  filling  them,  they  drink  to  Silver,  as 
the  curtain  goes  down. 

Scene  II 

The  Way  Out 
Characters: 
Dr.  Livesey. 
Jim. 
Silver,  etc. 

The  place  is  the  same  as  for  Scene  I. 
The  time  is  early  morning — the  light  dim.     The  curtain 
goes  up  on  the  sleeping  camp — Jit7i,  waking. 


18  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Doctor  Livesey.  [From  hehind  ike  scenes]  Block-house, 
a-hoy !     Block-house,  a-hoy ! 

Jim.  [Wide-awake — joyously,  hut  remaining  in  shadow] 
The  Doctor! 

Others  jump  from  couches  in  haste;  Dr.  Livesey  enters. 

Silver.  You,  doctor!  Top  o'  the  morning  to  you,  sir! 
Briglit  and  early,  to  be  sure;  and  it's  the  early  bird  that 
get's  the  rations.  George,  shake  up  your  timbers,  son, 
and  welcome  Dr.  Livesey.  All  a-doin'  well,  your  pa- 
tients was — all  well  and  merry!  [Standing  with  crutch 
under  his  arm,  one  hand  on  the  wall]  We've  quite  a 
surprise  for  you,  too,  sir.  We've  a  little  stranger  here — 
he!  he!  A  noo  boarder  and  lodger,  sir,  and  looking  fit 
and  taut  as  a  fiddle;  slep'  like  a  supercargo,  he  did, 
right  alongside  of  John — stem  to  stem  we  was,  all  night. 
[Draiving  Jim  into  light] 

Doctor.     Jim!     [For  a  minute  dumb  with  astonishment] 

Silver.     The  very  same  Jim  as  ever. 

Doctor.  [Nodding  grimly  at  Jim,  and  passing  to  the  group 
of  m.en  at  the  rear]  Well,  well,  duty  first  and  pleasure 
afterward,  as  you  might  have  said  yourself.  Silver.  Let  us 
overhaul  these  patients  of  yours.  [To  John]  You're  doing 
well,  my  friend,  and  if  ever  any  person  had  a  close  shave,  it 
was  you;  your  head  must  be  as  hard  as  iron.  [To  George] 
Well,  George,  how  goes  it?  You're  a  pretty  color,  cer- 
tainly; why  your  liver,  man,  is  upside  down.  Did  you 
take  that  medicine?     Did  he  take  that  medicine,  men? 

Morgan.     Ay,  ay,  sir,  he  took  it  sure  enough. 

Doctor.  [In  his  j)leasantest  manner]  Since  I  am  muti- 
neers' doctor,  or  prison  doctor  as  I  prefer  to  call  it, — 
I  make  it  a  point  of  honor  not  to  lose  a  man  for  King 
George  and  the  gallows ! 

The  rogues  look  at  each  other,  hut  remain  silent. 

One  of  the  Men.     Dick  don't  feel  well,  sir. 


First  Year]  Trettsuve  Island  19 

Doctor.  Don't  he?  Well,  step  up  here,  Dick,  and  let 
me  see  your  tongue.  [Dick  obeys]  No,  I  should  be  sur- 
prised if  he  did.     Another  fever! 

Morgan.     Ah,  there,  that  corned  of  sp'iling  Bibles. 

Doctor.  That  corned — as  you  call  it — of  not  having  sense 
enough  to  know  honest  air  from  poison!  Camp  in  a 
bog,  would  you?  Silver,  I'm  surprised  at  you!  [Gives 
Dick  medicine]  Well,  that's  done  for  today.  And  now 
I  should  wish  to  have  a  talk  with  that  boy,  please.  [Nod- 
ding carelessly  in  Jim's  direction] 

George.  [Who  has  been  in  the  meantime  taking  medicine 
with  much  sputtering  a7id  a  irry  face,  turning  suddenly] 
No! 

Silver.  [To  the  men;  striking  barrel  with  open  hand]  Sil- 
ence! [Pleasantly  to  the  Doctor]  Doctor,  I  was  thinking 
of  that,  knowing  as  how  you  had  a  fancy  for  the  boy. 
We're  all  humbly  grateful  for  your  kindness,  and,  as 
you  see,  puts  faith  in  you,  and  takes  the  drugs  down 
like  that  much  grog.  And  I  take  it  I've  found  a  way 
as '11  suit  all.  Hawkins,  will  you  give  me  your  word  of 
honor  as  a  young  gentleman — for  a  young  gentleman 
you  are,  though  poor  born — your  word  of  honor  not  to 
slip  your  cable? 

Jim.  [Haughtily]  You  may  depend  upon  me  —  I  pledge 
my  word  as  a  gentleman. 

Silver.  Then,  Doctor,  we'll  just  step  outside,  and  leave 
you  and  the  boy  to  yarn  on  the  inside.     Come  men! 

The  men  mutter  and  look  back  disapprovingly,  bid 
follow  Silver,  leaving  the  Doctor  and  Jim  alone.  Jim  watches 
them  through  a  loophole  until  he  knotvs  they  are  far  enough 
array  not  to  hear  their  conversation. 

Doctor.  So,  Jim,  here  you  are — [Silver  re-enters  cautiously] 
Well,  Silver,  I  thought  Jim  and  I  were  to  hold  a  private 
council. 


20  Dramatization  [rirstTear 

Silver.  Sh!  Doctor,  I've  just  a  minute — I  made  an 
excuse  to  return,  but  they'll  suspect,  if  I'm  away 
long.  [Rapidly  and  excitedly]  You'll  make  a  note 
of  this  here,  also,  doctor,  and  the  boy '11  tell  you 
how  I  saved  his  life,  and  were  deposed  for  it,  too,  and 
you  may  lay  to  that.  Doctor,  when  a  man's  steering 
as  near  to  the  wind  as  me — playing  chuck-farthing 
with  the  last  breath  in  his  bod}',  like — you  wouldn't 
think  it  too  much,  mayhap,  to  give  him  one  good 
word!  You'll  please  bear  in  mind  it's  not  my  life 
only  now — it's  that  boy's  into  the  bargain;  and  you'll 
speak  me  fair,  doctor,  and  give  me  a  bit  o'  hope  to  go 
on,  for  the  sake  of  mercy. 

Doctor.     Why,  John,  you're  not  afraid? 

Silver.  Doctor,  I'm  no  coward;  no,  not  I — not  so  much! 
[Sttapping  Jiis  fingers]  If  I  was  I  wouldn't  say  it.  But 
I'll  own  up  fairly,  I've  the  shakes  upon  me  for  the  gal- 
lows. You're  a  good  man  and  a  true;  I  never  seen  a 
better  man!  And  you'll  not  forget  what  I  done  good, 
not  any  more  than  you'll  forget  the  bad,  I  know.  And 
I  step  outside  and  leave  you  and  Jim  alone.  And  you  '11 
put  that  dow^n  for  me,  too,  for  it's  a  long  stretch,  is  that! 

Doctor.     Ay!  Ay!  Silver. 

Silver  hastens  out,  leaving   the  Doctor  and  Jim  alone 
again. 

Doctor.  So,  Jim,  here  you  are!  As  you  have  brewed,  so 
shall  you  drink,  my  boy.  Heaven  knows  I  cannot  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  blame  you;  but  this  much  I  will  say, 
be  it  kind  or  unkind:  when  Captain  Smollett  was  well, 
you  dared  not  have  gone  off;  and  when  he  was  ill,  and 
couldn't  help  it,  by  George,  it  was  downright  cowardly! 

Jim.  [Appealingly]  Doctor,  you  might  spare  me.  I  have 
blamed  myself  enough;  my  life's  forfeit  anyway,  and 
I  should  have  been  dead  by  now,  if  Silver  hadn't  stood  for 


First  Yflar]  Tveasure  Island  21 

me;  and,  doctor,  believe  this,  I  can  die — and  I  dare  say 
I  deserve  it — but  what  I  fear  is  torture.  If  they  come 
to  torture  me — 

Doctor.  [In  a  changed  voice]  Jim,  I  can't  have  this! 
Whij)  over,  and  we'll  run  for  it.  [Pointing  to  opposite 
direction  from  the  one  taken  by  the  men]  The  block-house 
will  shelter  us  from  view — and — 

Jim.     [Interrupting]     Doctor,  I  passed  my  word. 

Doctor.  I  know,  I  know.  We  can 't  help  that,  Jim,  now. 
I'll  take  it  on  my  shoulders — one  jump,  and  we're 
out,  and  we'll  run  like  antelopes! 

Jim.  No,  you  know  right  well  you  wouldn't  do  the  thing 
yourself.  No  more  will  I.  Silver  trusted  me,  and  here  I 
stay !  But  doctor,  you  did  not  let  me  finish.  If  they  come 
to  torture  me,  I  might  let  slip  a  word  o£  where  the  ship  is, 
for  I  got  the  ship,  part  bj'  luck  and  part  by  risking. 

Doctor.     The  ship!     You  got  the  ship? 

Jim.  Yes.  And  she  lies  in  the  North  Inlet,  on  the  southern 
beach,  and  just  below  high  water. 

Doctor.  There 's  no  time  now  to  tell  me  how  you  worked 
that  miracle.  Heaven  send  there  be  time  later  on! 
But  there  is  a  kind  of  fate  in  this,  my  boy.  Every 
step,  it's  you  that  saves  our  lives;  and  do  you  suppose  by 
any  chance  that  we  are  going  to  let  you  lose  yours? 
You  found  out  the  j)lot;  you  found  Ben  Gunn — the  best 
deed  that  ever  you  did,  or  will  do,  though  you  live  to 
ninety.  Oh,  by  Jupiter,  and  talking  of  Ben  Gunn! — 
why  this  is  the  mischief  in  person.  [Slight  7wise  out- 
side. They  li.slen.  The  Doctor  walks  toward  loophole  and 
calls]  Silver!  Silver!  [Enter  Silver]  Don't  you  be  in 
any  great  hurry  after  that  treasure. 

Silver.  Why,  sir,  I  do  my  possible,  which  that  ain't.  I 
can  only,  asking  your  pardon,  save  my  life  and  the  boy 's 
by  seeking  for  that  treasure;  and  you  may  lay  to  that. 


22  Dramatization  [First  Tear 

Doctor.  Well,  Silver,  if  that  is  so,  I'll  go  one  step  farther; 
look  out  for  squalls  when  you  find  it! 

Silver.  Sir,  as  between  man  and  man,  that's  too  much 
and  too  little.  What  you're  after,  why  you  left  the 
block-house,  why  you  given  me  that  there  chart,  I  don't 
know,  now,  do  1?  And  yet  I  done  your  bidding  with 
my  eyes  shut  and  never  a  word  of  hope!  But  no,  this 
here's  too  much.  If  you  won't  tell  me  what  you  mean 
plain  out,  just  say  so,  and  I'll  leave  the  helm. 

Doctor.  No,  I've  no  right  to  say  more;  it's  not  my 
secret,  you  see,  Silver,  or,  I  give  you  my  word,  I'd  tell 
it  to  you.  But  I  '11  go  as  far  with  you  as  I  dare  go,  and 
a  step  beyond;  for  I'll  have  my  wng  sorted  by  the  captain, 
or  I'm  mistaken!  And  first,  I'll  give  you  a  bit  of  hope: 
Silver,  if  we  both  get  alive  out  of  this  wolf-trap,  I'll  do 
my  best  to  save  you,  short  of  perjury. 

Silver.  [With  radiant  face]  You  couldn't  say  more,  sir, 
not  if  you  was  my  mother. 

Doctor.  Well,  that's  my  first  concession.  My  second, 
is  a  piece  of*  advice.  Keep  the  boy  close  beside  you, 
and  when  you  need  help,  halloo.  I'm  off  to  seek  it  for 
you!  Good  bye,  Jim.  [Shakes  ha)ids  with  Jim,  nods  to 
Silver,  then  goes  out] 

Silver.  [To  Jim]  Jim,  if  I  saved  your  life,  you  saved 
mine,  and  I'll  not  forget  it.  I  was  peeking  through  the 
loophole,  when  the  doctor  asked  you  to  run.  And  I 
heard  you  say  "No."  Then  I  went  away.  This  is  the 
first  glint  of  hope  I've  had  since  the  attack  failed,  and 
I  owe  it  to  you.  And  now,  Jim,  we're  to  go  in  for  this 
here  treasure-hunting,  wdth  sealed  orders,  too,  and  I 
don't  like  it;  and  you  and  me  must  stick  close,  back 
to  back  like,  and  we'll  save  our  necks  in  spite  o'  fate 
and  fortune.  But  sh!  Here  come  the  men! 
Curtain  goes  doion  as  the  men  enter. 


i-irst  Year]  Ivauhoe  23 


IVANEOE 

Sir    Walter    Scot*; 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

Chap,  xi  is  the  basis  for  the  first  episode  from  Ivanhoe.  The  dra- 
matic adaptation  of  this  chapter  follows  the  original  very  closely.  The 
dialogue  remains  practically  unchanged,  and  the  details  for  stage  setting 
and  appropriate  action  are  taken  bodily  from  Scott's  narrative. 

The  fight  in  this  scene  becomes  most  effective  by  the  preliminary 
twirling  of  the  staves,  (see  stage  directions,  page  28),  for  which  boys 
may  be  readily  trained.  The  actual  combat  should  be  reduced  to  two 
or  three  passes.  It  has  been  found  by  experience  that  the  apparent 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  presenting  such  a  scene,  quickly  disappear  in 
working  it  out  by  assigning  definite  positions  and  actions  to  the  com- 
batants. 

The  second  episode  includes  parts  of  chaps,  xvi,  xvii,  and  xx.  In  the 
dramatization  of  these  chapters  the  scene  remains  unchanged.  The 
action  throughout  occurs  within  the  cell  of  the  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst. 
This  necessitates  slight  changes  here  and  there.  The  opening  situation 
is  suggested  by  the  paragraph  beginning:  Accordingly,  the  knight  took 
no  time  to  consider  minutely  the  particulars  which  we  hare  detailed,  etc. 
The  Knight's  first  speech  and  a  few  others  in  the  course  of  the  dialogue 
that  ensues  necessarily  are  interpolations.  The  songs  are  sung  without 
the  accompaniment  of  the  harp,  on  account  of  the  difficulty  of  obtaining 
such  an  instrument.  The  old  song,  I'he  hottest  horse  will  oft  be  cool, 
is  taken  from  the  heading  of  chap,  xxvi  and  introduced  into  the  revels 
of  the  two  jolly  companions,  and  the  drinking  song.  Come,  troicl  the 
brown  boui  to  me,  found  in  chap,  xx,  is  sung  just  as  the  merry-makers 
are  disturbed  by  the  loud  knocking  of  Lockslcy. 

The  action  of  chap,  xx  is  taken  up  at  the  point  where  Locksley, 
Wamba,  and  Gurth  seek  admittance  to  the  holy  clerk's  cell.  The 
paragraph  beginning:  While  they  were  thus  speaking,  Lockslcy's  loud 
and  repeated  knocks  had  at  length  disturbed  the  anchorite  and  his  guest, 
suggests  the  situation.  Throughout  this  chapter  the  changes  made  are 
very  slight  and  are  of  the  character  of  those  previously  indicated. 

For  suggestions  for  the  incidental  music  see  Bibliography,  (p.  G4  ) 


24  Dramatization  iiirstYefr 

GURTH    AND    THE   OuTLAWS 

Characters: 

Gurth. 

The  Captain  of  the  Outlaivs  and  Three  Other  Outlaws. 

The  scene  represents  a  forest;  in  the  rear,  a  thickly  wooded 
path;  toward  the  front,  a  clear  space.  Gurth  is  discovered 
walking  quickly  down  the  path.  Suddenly  four  men  spring 
out  of  the  trees  upon  him.  They  have  short  swords  by 
their  sides  and  quarter-staves  in  their  hands;  all  wear  visors. 
One  of  the  men  carries  a  lantern  with  light  concealed.  The 
time  is  ticilight.     The  light  on  the  stage  is  dim. 

The  Captain.  Surrender  your  charge;  we  are  the 
deliverers  of  the  commonwealth,  who  ease  every  man 
of  his  burden. 

Gurth.  [In  a  surly  manner]  You  should  not  ease  me  of 
mine  so  lightly,  had  I  it  but  in  my  power  to  give  three 
strokes  in  its  defence. 

The  Captain.  We  shall  see  that  presently.  [To  his  com- 
panions] Bring  along  the  knave.  I  see  he  would  have 
his  head  broken  as  well  as  his  purse  cut,  and  so  be  let 
blood  in  two  veins  at  once. 

They  drag  him  roughly  into  the  open. 

First  Outlaw.     What  money  hast  thou,  churl? 

Gurth.     [Doggedly]     Thirty  zecchins  of  my  own  property. 

Second  Outlaw.  A  forfeit — a  forfeit!  A  Saxon  hath 
thirty  zecchins,  and  returns  sober  from  a  village!  An 
undeniable  and  unredeemable  forfeit  of  all  he  hath  about 
him. 

Gurth.     I  hoarded  it  to  purchase  my  freedom. 

Third  Outlaw\  Thou  art  a  fool.  Three  quarts  of 
double  ale  had  rendered  thee  as  free  as  thy  master,  ay, 
and  freer  too,  if  he  be  a  Saxon  like  thyself. 


First  Year]  Ivauhoe  25 

GuRTH.  A  sad  truth;  but  if  these  same  thirty  zecchins 
will  buy  my  freedom  from  you,  unloose  my  hands  and  I 
will  pay  them  to  you. 

The  Captain.  Hold,  this  bag  which  thou  bcarest,  as  I  can 
feel  through  thy  cloak,  contains  more  coin  than  thou  hast 
told  us  of. 

GuRTH.  It  is  the  good  knight  my  master's,  of  which, 
assuredly,  I  would  not  have  spoken  a  word,  had  you  been 
satisfied  with  working  your  will  upon  mine  own  property. 

The  Captain.  Thou  art  an  honest  fellow,  I  warrant  thee; 
and  we  worship  not  St.  Nicholas  so  devoutly  but  what 
thy  thirty  zecchins  may  yet  escape,  if  thou  deal  up- 
rightly with  us.  Meantime,  render  up  thy  trust  for 
the  time.  [He  takes  from  Giirtlis  breast  a  loell-filled  purse. 
Then  he  places  Gurth  in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  barid]  Who 
is  thy  master? 

Gurth.     The  Disinherited  Knight. 

The  Captain.  Whose  good  lance  won  the  prize  in  today's 
tourney?     W^hat  is  his  name  and  lineage? 

Gurth.  It  is  his  pleasure  that  they  be  concealed;  and 
from  me,  assuredly,  you  will  learn  nought  of  them. 

The  Captain.     What  is  thine  own  name  and  lineage? 

(iuRTH.     To  tell  that,  might  reveal  my  nuister's. 

The  Captain..  Thou  art  a  saucy  groom,  but  of  that 
anon.  How  comes  thy  master  by  this  gold?  is  it  of 
his  inheritance,  or  by  what  means  hath  it  accrued  to 
him? 

Gurth.  By  his  good  lance.  These  bags  contain  the 
ransom  of  four  good  horses,  and  four  good  suits  of 
armor. 

The  Captain.     How  much  is  there? 

Gurth.     Two  hundred  zecchins. 

The  Captain.  Only  two  hundred  zecchins!  Your  master 
hath  dealt  liberally  by  the  vanquished,  and  put  them  to  a 


26  Dramatization  rrirst  Year 

cheap  ransom.     The  ransom  of  four  vanquished  knights 

in  today's  tourney.     [Pajising]     And  where  is  the  fifth? 

The  armor  and  liorse  of  the  Templar  Brian    de    Bois- 

Guilbert — at  what  ransom  were  they  held?     Thou  seest 

thou  canst  not  deceive  me. 
GuRTH.     My  master  will  take  nought  from  the  Templar 

save   his    life's-blood.     They    are    on    terms    of    mortal 

defiance,  and  cannot  hold  courteous  intercourse  together. 
The  Captain.     Indeed!     [Pausi7ig]     And  what  wert  thou 

now  doing  at  Ashby  with  such  a  charge  in  thy  custody? 
GuRTH.     I  went  thither  to  render  to  Isaac  the  Jew  of  York 

the  price  of  a  suit  of  armor  with  which  he  fitted  my 

master  for  this  tournament. 
The  Captain.      And  how  much  didst  thou  pay  to  Isaac? 

Methinks  to  judge  by  weight,  there  is  still  two  hundred 

zecchins  in  this  pouch. 
GuRTH.     I  paid  to  Isaac  eighty  zecchins,  and  he  restored 

me  a  hundred  in  lieu  thereof. 
The  Outlaws.     [Excitedly]     How!  what! 
The  Captain.     Thou  tellest  improbable  lies ! 
Gurth.     What  I  tell  you  is  as  true  as  the  moon  is  in  heaven. 

You  will  find  the  just  sum  in  a  silken  purse  within  the 

leathern  pouch,  and  separate  from  the  rest  of  the  gold. 
The  Captain.     Bethink  thee,  man,  thou  speakest  of  Isaac 

of  York,  a    man  as  unapt   to  restore  gold  as  the  dry 

sand  of  his  deserts  to  return  the  cup  of  water  which 

the  pilgrim  spills  upon  them. 
Gurth.     It  is,  however,  as  I  say. 
The  Captain.     A   light   instantly!     I   will   examine    this 

said  purse,  and  see  if  it  be  as  this  fellow  says. 

The  man  with  the  lantern  steps  fonvard  and  uncovers 
the  light.  The  Captain  proceeds  to  examine  the  purse. 
The  two  who  have  hold  of  Gurth  relax  their  grasp  while  they 
stretch  their  n  ecks  to  watch .    By  a  sudden  exertion  of  strength 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  27 


and  activity,  Gurth  shakes  himself  free  of  their  hold.  He 
wrenches  a  quarter-staff  from  one  of  the  robbers,  strikes 
doicn  the  Captain  and  seizes  the  purse.  The  thieves,  how- 
ever, recapture  Gurth  and  again  secure  the  bag. 

The  Captain.  [Getting  up]  Knave!  thou  hast  broken 
my  head,  and  with  other  men  of  our  sort  thou  wouldst 
fare  the  worse  for  thy  insolence.  But  thou  shalt  know 
thy  fate  instantly.  First  let  us  speak  of  thy  master; 
the  knight's  matters  must  go  before  the  squire's,  accord- 
ing to  the  due  order  of  chivalry.  Stand  thou  fast  in  the 
meantime;  if  thou  stir  again,  thou  shalt  have  that 
will  make  thee  quiet  for  thy  life.  Comrades!  [address- 
ing the  oiitlaws]  this  purse  is  embroidered  with  Hebrew 
characters,  and  I  well  believe  the  yeoman's  tale  is 
true.  The  errant  knight,  his  master,  must  needs 
pass  us  toll-free.  He  is  too  like  ourselves  for  us  to  make 
booty  of  him,  since  dogs  should  not  worry  dogs  where 
wolves  and  foxes  are  to  be  found  in  abundance. 

First  Outlaav.  [Contcmptuoushj]  Like  us!  I  should  like 
to  hear  how  that  is  made  good. 

The  Captain.  Why,  thou  fool,  is  he  not  poor  and  disin- 
herited as  we  are?  Doth  he  not  win  his  substance  at  the 
sword's  point  as  we  do?  Hath  he  not  beaten  Front- 
de-BoBuf  and  Malvoisin,  even  as  we  would  beat  them 
if  we  could?  Is  he  not  the  enemy  to  life  and  death  of 
Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert,  whom  we  have  so  much  reason 
to  fear?  And  were  all  this  otherwise,  wouldst  thou  have 
us  show  a  worse  conscience  than  Isaac  of  York? 

First  Outlaw.  Nay,  that  were  a  shame.  —  And  this 
insolent  peasant — he  too,  I  warrant  me,  is  to  be  dis- 
missed scatheless? 

The  Captain.  Not  if  thou  canst  scathe  him. —  Here, 
fellow,  [addressing  Gurth]  canst  thou  use  the  staff,  that 
thou  startst  to  it  so  readily? 


28  Dramatization  [First  Year 

GuRTH.  I  think  thou  shouldst  be  best  able  to  reply  to 
that  question. 

The  Captain.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  thou  gavest  me  a  round 
knock;  do  as  much  for  this  fellow,  and  thou  shalt  pass 
scot-free;  and  if  thou  dost  not  —  why,  by  my  faith,  as 
thou  art  such  a  sturdy  knave,  I  think  I  must  pay  thy 
ransom  myself.  [To  the  First  Outlaw]  Take  thy  staff, 
Miller,  and  keep  thy  head;  [To  the  other  Outlaws]  and 
do  you  others  let  the  fellow  go,  and  give  him  a  staff  — 
there  is  light  enough  to  lay  on  load  by. 

The  First  Outlaw  and  Gurth,  armed  alike  with  quarter- 
staves,  stejp  foricard  into  the  center  of  the  open  space. 

The  OuTLAAVs.     [Laughing]     Miller,  beware! 

First  Outlaw.  [Holdiyig  his  quarter-staff  in  the  center  and 
flourishing  it  round  his  head.  Boastfullij]  Come  on 
churl,  an  thou  darest:  thou  shalt  feel  the  strength  of  a 
miller's  thumb ! 

Gurth.  [Undauntedly,  making  his  weapon  play  round  his 
head  with  equal  dexterity]  If  thou  be'st  a  miller,  thou  art 
doubly  a  thief,  and  I,  as  a  true  man,  bid  thee  defiance. 

The  tivo  champions  close  together,  and  at  first  display 
great  equality  in  strength,  courage,  and  skill.  The  robbers 
laugh  loudly  at  seeing  the  Miller  so  stoutly  opposed.  This 
rexes  the  Miller  who  loses  his  temper  and  strikes  wildly. 
Gurth  suddenly  hurls  his  staff  at  the  Miller^ s  head.  The 
Miller  instantly  measures  his  length  upon  the  ground. 

The  Outlaws.  [Severally]  Well  and  yeomanly  done  I — 
fair  play  and  old  England  forever! — The  Saxon  has  saved 
both  his  purse  and  his  hide!  The  Miller  has  met  his 
match. 

The  Captain.  [Stepping  up  to  Gurth  and  addressing  him] 
Thou  mayst  go  thy  ways,  my  friend,  and  [beckoning  to 
two  of  the  Outlaws]  I  will  cause  two  of  my  comrades  to 
guide  thee  by  the  best  way  to  thy  master's  pavilion, 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  29 


and  to  guard  thee  from  night-walkers  that  might  have 
less  tender  consciences  than  ours;  for  there  is  many 
one  of  them  upon  the  amble  in  such  a  night  as  this. 
[Looking  sternly  at  Gurth]  Take  heed,  however;  remember 
thou  hast  refused  to  tell  thy  name;  ask  not  after  ours,  nor 
endeavor  to  discover  who  or  what  we  are,  for,  if  thou 
makest  such  an  attempt,  thou  wilt  come  by  worse 
fortune  than  has  yet  befallen  thee. 

GuRTir.  I  thank  thee,  Captain.  I  will  heed  what  thou 
sayest.  As  I  have  refused  thee  my  name  and  the  good 
knight,  my  master's,  so  I  will  not  ask  after  thine. 

The  Captaix.  Bethink  thee,  man.  Keep  secret  what  has 
this  night  befallen  thee  and  thou  shalt  have  no  room  to 
repent  it;  neglect  what  is  now  told  thee  and  the  Tower 
of  London  shall  not  protect  thee  against  our  revenge. 
And  now  good-night,  my  man! 

Gurth.  Good-night  to  you,  kind  sir.  I  shall  remember 
your  orders  and  trust  that  there  is  no  offence  in  wishing 
you  an  honester  trade. 

He    leaves    icith    the    two    Outlaws    designated    by    the 
Captain  as  his  guides. 

Curtain 

The  Revels  of  the  Black  Knight  and  the  Clerk 
OF  Copmanhurst 

Characters : 

The  Black  Knight.  Locksley. 

The  Hermit,  the  Clerk  JVamba. 

of  Copmanhurst.  Gurth. 

The  scene  represents  the  interior  of  the  Hermit's  cell.  It  is 
meagerly  furnished.  In  the  center  is  a  rough-hewn  table  and 
two  stools.    At  one  side,  on  the  floor,  a  bed  of  leaves;  at  the  other. 


30  Dramatization  [First  year 

a  small  iahle  on  v^hich  siand  a  cmcifix  ruddy  carved  in  oak, 
a  missal  (mass  book),  and  a  hvisted  iron  candlestick  holding  a 
lighted  candle.  In  the  rear  is  a  rude  fireplace,  piled  with 
logs.  A  dark  cnriain  at  the  left  conceals  a  cupboard  or  chest 
containing  food  and  wine.  In  the  corresponding  position, 
right,  a  similar  curtain  conceals  a  closet  containing  weapons. 
The  Hermit  is  discovered  making  ready  for  his  evening  meal. 
He  is  a  large,  strongly  built  man,  dressed  in  a  gray  gown 
and  hood,  around  his  ivaist  a  rope  girdle.  As  he  places  on 
the  table  a  huge  meat  pie,  a  loud  knock  is  heard  at  the  door 
as  if  made  with  the  butt  of  a  lance.  The  Hermit  does  not 
answer.  Instead,  he  goes  to  the  cupboard  or  chest  and  takes 
out  a  jug  of  wine.  Then  he  starts  toicard  the  table,  but  as 
the  knocking  continues,  returns  to  the  cupboard  with  the  wine. 
As  the  knocking  groics  louder  and  more  insistent,  he  hastily 
removes  the  pie  and  hides  it  also  in  the  cupboard.  He  then 
stands  listening. 

The  Knight.  [Without]  A  poor  wanderer  craves  admit- 
tance, worthy  father. 

The  Hermit.  [In  a  hoarse  voice]  Pass  on,  whosoever  thou 
art,  and  disturb  not  the  servant  of  God  and  St.  Dunstan 
in  his  evening  devotions. 

The  Knight.  Worthy  father,  here  is  a  poor  wanderer 
bewildered  in  these  woods,  who  gives  thee  the  oppor- 
tunity of  exercising  thy  charity  and  hospitahty. 

The  Hermit.  Good  brother,  it  has  pleased  Our  Lady  and 
St.  Dunstan  to  destine  me  for  the  object  of  those  virtues, 
instead  of  the  exercise  thereof.  I  have  no  provisions 
here  which  even  a  dog  would  share  with  me. 

The  Knight.  But  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  find  my  way 
through  such  a  wood  as  this,  when  darkness  is  coming 
on?  I  pray  you,  reverend  father,  as  you  are  a  Christian, 
to  undo  your  door,  and  at  least  point  out  to  me  my  road. 


First  Year]  Ivaukoe  31 

The  Hermit.  And  I  pray  you,  good  Christian  brother,  to 
disturb  me  no  more.  You  have  already  interrupted  one 
pater,  two  aves,  and  a  credo,  which  I,  miserable  sinner 
that  I  am,  should,  according  to  my  vow,  have  said 
before  moonrise. 

While  talking  he  fetches  from  the  chest  a  flatter  of 
'parched  pease  and  a  large  drinking  can  of  ivater  and  places 
them  on  the  table.  Then  he  covers  his  head  with  his  cowl, 
takes  up  his  missal,  and  mumbles  a  Latin  prayer. 

The  Knight.  The  road — the  road!  give  me  directions 
for  the  road,  if  I  am  to  expect  no  more  from  thee. 

The  Hermit.  The  road  is  easy  to  hit.  The  path  from  the 
wood  leads  to  a  morass,  and  from  thence  to  a  ford,  which, 
as  the  rains  have  abated,  may  now  be  passable.  When 
thou  hast  crossed  the  ford,  thou  wilt  take  care  of  thy 
footing  up  the  left  bank,  as  it  is  somewhat  precipitous, 
and  the  path,  which  hangs  over  the  river,  has  lately,  as 
I  learn  —  for  I  seldom  leave  the  duties  of  my  chapel  — 
given  way  in  svmdry  places.  Thou  wilt  then  keep 
straight  forward  — 

The  Knight.  [Interrupting]  A  broken  path — a  precipice 
— a  ford — and  a  morass!  Sir  Hermit,  if  you  were  the 
holiest  that  ever  wore  beard  or  told  bead,  you  shall 
scarce  prevail  on  me  to  hold  this  road  tonight.  I  tell 
thee,  that  thou,  who  livest  by  the  charity  of  the  country — 
ill  deserved  as  I  doubt  it  is — hast  no  right  to  refuse 
shelter  to  the  wayfarer  when  in  distress.  Either  open 
the  door  quickly,  or,  by  the  rood,  I  will  beat  it  down  and 
make  entry  for  myself. 

1'he  Hermit.  Friend  wayfarer,  be  not  importunate;  if 
thou  puttest  me  to  use  the  carnal  weapon  in  mine  own 
defence,  it  will  be  e'en  the  worse  for  you.  [Furious 
pounding  on  the  door  without  is  heard.  The  Hermit  takes 
up  the  candlestick  and  approaches  the  door]     Patience — 


32  Dramatization  [First  Tear 

patience;  spare  thy  strength,  good  traveler,  and  I  will 
presently  undo  the  door,  though  it  may  be,  my  doing 
so  will  be  little  to  thy  pleasure.  [He  opens  the  door  and 
the  stranger,  an  imposing  figure  in  the  full  armor  of  a 
knight,  enters].  Enter,  friend  wayfarer.  The  multitude 
of  robliers  and  outlaws  abroad  in  this  land,  who  give  no 
honor  to  Our  Lady  or  St.  Dunstan,  nor  to  those  holy 
men  who  spend  life  in  their  service,  force  me  to  be  chary 
about  admitting  strangers  to  my  cell. 

The  Knight.  [Loohing  around]  The  poverty  of  your  cell, 
good  father,  should  seem  a  sufficient  defence  against  any 
risk  of  thieves. 

The  Hermit.  It  w^ould  seem  so.  Sir  Knight,  and  yet  must 
I  needs  be  careful. 

He  puts  the  candlestick  on  the  small  tabic,  goes  to  the 
fire,  throics  on  a  log,  then  places  a  stool  at  the  side  of  the 
table  facing  the  audience  and  beckons  the  Knight  to  do 
the  same  at  the  end.  The  Knight  does  his  bidding  and 
they  seat  themselves  and  gaze  at  each  other  with  great  gravity . 

The  Knight.  Reverend  hermit,  [looking fixedly  at  his  host] 
were  it  not  to  interrupt  your  devout  meditations,  I 
would  pray  to  know  three  things  of  your  holiness; 
first,  where  I  am  to  put  my  horse?  secondly,  what  I  can 
have  for  supper?  thirdly,  where  I  am  to  take  up  my 
couch  for  the  night? 

The  Hermit.  I  will  reply  to  you  with  my  finger,  it  being 
against  my  rule  to  speak  by  words  where  signs  can 
answer  the  purpose.  [Pointing  to  the  door]  Your  stable  is 
out  there:  your  bed,  there  [pointing  to  the  bed  of  leaves] 
and,  [pointing  to  the  platter  of  pease]  your  supper  here. 

The  Knight.  Holy  father,  I  thank  you  for  your  courtesy. 
Shall  we  now  eat? 

The  Hermit.  After  grace,  Sir  Knight.  [Mumbles  a  Latin 
prayer]     And  now  fall  to. 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  33 


The  Knight.  [Ri.n7ig].  First,  by  your  leave — [He  lays 
aside  his  helmet  and  corselet.  The  Hermit  also  rises  and 
throws  hack  his  cowl.  Then  they  both  reseat  themselves 
and  begin  to  eat  from  the  dish  of  pease.] 

The  Hermit.  A  poor  hermit's  fare  is  no  fit  food  for  a 
weary  traveler,  Sir  Knight. 

The  Knight.  [With  difficulty  masticating  a  mouthful  of 
pease]  By  my  sword,  no. — Holy  father,  I  beg  some- 
what to  drink;  I  can  scarce  swallow. 

The  Hermit.  [Vlacing  before  the  Knight  the  large  can] 
Here  is  water,  Sir  Knight,  from  the  well  of  St.  Dunstan, 
in  which,  betwixt  sun  and  sun  he  baptized  five  hundred 
heathen    Danes    and    Britons- — blessed    be    his   name! 

The  Knight.  It  seems  to  me,  reverend  father,  that  the 
small  morsels  which  you  eat,  together  with  this  holy  but 
somewhat  thin  beverage,  have  thriven  with  you  marvel- 
ously.  You  appear  a  man  more  fit  to  win  the  ram  at  a 
wrestling-match,  or  the  ring  at  a  bout  at  quarter-staff, 
or  the  bucklers  at  a  sword-play,  than  to  linger  out  your 
time  in  this  desolate  wilderness,  saying  masses,  and 
living  upon  parched  pease  and  cold  water. 

The  Hermit.  Sir  Knight,  your  thoughts,  like  those  of 
the  ignorant  laity,  are  according  to  the  flesh.  It  has 
pleased  Our  Lady  and  my  patron  saint  to  bless  the 
pittance  to  which  I  restrain  myself. 

The  Knight.  Holy  father,  upon  whose  countenance  it 
hath  pleased  Heaven  to  work  such  a  miracle,  permit  a 
sinful  layman  to  crave  thy  name? 

The  Hermit.  Thou  mayst  call  me  the  Clerk  of  Copman- 
hurst,  for  so  I  am  termed  in  these  parts.  They  add,  it 
is  true,  the  epithet  holy,  but  I  stand  not  upon  that  as 
being  unworthy  of  such  addition.  And  now,  valiant 
knight,  may  I  pray  ye  for  the  name  of  my  honorable 
guest? 


34  Dramatization  [First  Year 

The  Knight.  Truly,  Holy  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst,  men 
call  me  in  these  parts  the  Black  Knight;  many,  sir, 
add  to  it  the  epithet  of  Sluggard,  whereby  I  am  no  way 
ambitious  to  be  distinguished. 

The  Hermit.  I  see.  Sir  Sluggish  Knight,  that  thou  art  a 
man  of  prudence  and  of  counsel;  and  moreover,  I  see  that 
my  poor  monastic  fare  likes  thee  not,  accustomed, 
perhaps,  as  thou  hast  been  to  the  license  of  courts  and  of 
camps,  and  the  luxuries  of  cities;  and  now  I  bethink  me. 
Sir  Sluggard,  that  the  charitable  keeper  of  this  forest- 
walk  left  me  some  food,  which,  being  unfit  for  my  use,  the 
very  recollection  of  it  had  escaped  me  amid  my  more 
weighty  meditations. 

The  Knight.  I  dare  be  sworn  he  did  so;  I  was  convinced 
that  there  was  better  food  in  the  cell.  Holy  Clerk,  since 
you  first  doffed  your  cowl.  Your  keeper  is  ever  a  jovial 
fellow;  and  none  who  beheld  thy  grinders  contending 
with  these  pease,  and  thy  throat  flooded  with  this 
ungenial  element,  could  see  thee  doomed  to  such  horse- 
provender  and  horse-beverage  [pointing  to  the  provisions 
upon  the  table]  and  refrain  from  mending  thy  cheer. 
Let  us  see  the  keeper's  bounty,  therefore,  without  delay. 
The  Hermit  goes  to  his  cupboard  and  brings  forth  the 
pie.  He  places  it  before  his  guest,  who  uses  his  poniard 
to  cut  it  open  and  immediately  falls  to. 

The  Knight.  [After  sivallowing  a  goodly  mouthful]  How 
long  is  it  since  the  good  keeper  has  been  here? 

The  Hermit.     About  two  months. 

The  Knight.  By  the  true  Lord,  everything  in  your 
hermitage  is  miraculous.  Holy  Clerk!  for  I  would  have 
been  sworn  that  the  fat  buck  which  furnished  this 
venison  had  been  running  on  foot  within  the  week. 

He  continues  to  eat  ravenously.     The  Hermit  looks  with 
dismay  at  the  inroads  his  guest  is  making. 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  3^ 


The  Knight.  [Stopping  suddenly]  I  have  been  in  Pales- 
tine, Sir  Clerk,  and  I  bethink  me  it  is  a  custom  there  that 
every  host  who  entertains  a  guest  shall  assure  him  of  the 
wholesomeness  of  his  food  by  partaking  of  it  along 
with  him.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  suspect  so  holy 
a  man  of  aught  inhospitable,  nevertheless,  I  will  be 
highly  bound  to  you  would  you  comply  with  this 
Eastern  custom. 

The  Hermit.  To  ease  your  unnecessary  scruples.  Sir 
Knight,  I  will  for  once  depart  from  my  rule.  [He 
begins  to  eat  greedily] 

The  Knight.  Holy  Clerk,  I  would  gage  my  good  horse 
against  a  zecchin,  that  that  same  honest  keeper  to 
whom  we  are  obliged  for  the  venison  has  left  thee  a 
stoup  of  ^vine  with  this  noble  pasty.  This  would  be  a 
circumstance,  doubtless,  totally  unworthy  to  dwell  in  the 
memory  of  so  rigid  an  anchorite;  yet,  I  think,  were  you 
to  search  yonder  crypt  once  more,  you  would  find  that 
I  am  right  in  my  conjecture. 

The  Hermit  smiles,  goes  to  the  cupboard,  and  returns 
loith  a   leather  bottle,  and  two  large  drinking  cups. 

The  Hermit.  [Filling  both  cups]  Waes  hael.  Sir  Sluggish 
Knight! 

The  Knight.  Drinc  hael.  Holy  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst! 
[They  empty  their  cups]  Holy  Clerk,  I  cannot  but  marvel 
that  a  man  possessed  of  such  thews  and  sinews  as  thine, 
and  who  therewithal  shows  the  talent  of  so  goodly  a 
trencherman,  should  think  of  abiding  by  himself  in  this 
wilderness.  In  my  judgment,  you  are  fitter  to  keep  a  castle 
or  a  fort,  eating  of  the  fat  and  drinking  of  the  strong,  than 
to  live  here-  upon  pulse  and  water,  or  even  ui)on  the 
charity  of  the  keeper.  At  least,  were  I  as  thou,  I  should 
find  myself  both  disport  and  plenty  out  of  the  king's  deer. 
There  is  many  a  goodly  herd  in  these  forests,  and  a  ])uck 


36  Dramatization  [rirst  Year 

will  never  be  missed  that  goes  to  the  use  of  St.  Dunstan's 
chaplain. 

The  IIkkmit.  Sir  Sluggi.sh  Knight,  these  are  dangerous 
words,  and  I  pray  you  to  forbear  them.  I  am  true 
hermit  to  the  king  and  law,  and  were  I  to  spoil  my 
liege's  game,  I  should  be  sure  of  the  prison,  and,  an  my 
gown  saved  me  not,  were  in  some  peril  of  hanging. 

The  Knight.  Nevertheless,  were  I  as  thou,  I  would  take 
my  walk  by  moonlight,  when  foresters  and  keepers  were 
warm  in  bed,  and  ever  and  anon — as  I  pattered  my 
prayers  —  I  would  let  fly  a  shaft  among  the  herds  of 
deer  that  feed  in  the  glades.  Resolve  me,  Holy  Clerk, 
hast  thou  never  practised  such  a  pastime? 

The  Hermit.  Friend  Sluggard,  thou  hast  seen  all  that  can 
concern  thee  of  my  housekeeping,  and  something  more 
than  he  deserves  who  takes  up  his  quarters  by  violence. 
Credit  me,  it  is  better  to  enjoy  the  good  which  God 
sends  thee,  than  to  be  impertinently  curious  how  it 
comes.  Fill  thy  cup,  and  welcome;  and  do  not,  I  pray 
thee,  by  further  impertinent  inquiries,  put  me  to  show 
that  thou  couldst  hardly  have  made  good  thy  lodging 
had  I  been  earnest  to  oppose  thee. 

The  Knight.  By  my  faith,  thou  makest  me  more  curious 
than  ever !  Thou  art  the  most  mysterious  hermit  I  ever 
met;  and  I  will  know  more  of  thee  ere  we  part.  As  for  thy 
threats,  know,  holy  man,  thou  speakest  to  one  whose 
trade  it  is  to  find  out  danger  wherever  it  is  to  be  met  with. 

The  Hermit.  Sir  Sluggish  Knight,  I  drink  to  thee, 
respecting  thy  valor  much,  but  deeming  wondrous 
slightly  of  thy  discretion.  If  thou  wilt  take  equal  arms 
with  me,  I  will  give  thee,  in  all  friendship  and  brotherly 
love,  such  sufficing  penance  and  complete  absolution 
that  thou  shalt  not  for  the  next  twelve  months  sin  the 
sin  of  excess  of  curiosity. 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  37 


The  Knight.     Name  thy  weapons.  Holy  Clerk. 

The  Hermit.  [Rising  and  going  to  the  other  cupboard] 
There  is  none,  from  the  scissors  of  Delilah,  and  the 
tenpenny  nail  of  Jacl,  to  the  scimitar  of  Goliath,  at  which 
I  am  not  a  match  for  thee.  But,  if  I  am  to  make  the 
election,  what  sayst  thou,  good  friend,  to  these  trinkets? 
He  opens  the  cupboard  and  takes  out  a  couple  of  broad- 
swords and  bucklers.  In  the  cupboard  can  be  seen  two 
or  three  longbows,  a  crossboio,  a  bundle  of  bolts  for  the 
latter,  and  a  half  dozen  sheaves  of  arroics  for  the  former. 

The  Knight.  [Who  has  followed  the  Hermit]  I  promise 
thee,  brother  Clerk,  I  will  ask  thee  no  more  offensive 
questions.  The  contents  of  that  cupboard  are  an 
answer  to  all  my  inquiries. 

The  Herm,it  replaces  the  7veapons  and  closes  the  cup- 
board door.      Then  they  both  return  to  their  seats. 

The  Hermit.  I  hope.  Sir  Knight,  thou  hast  given  no 
good  reason  for  thy  surname  of  the  Sluggard.  I  do 
promise  thee,  I  suspect  thee  grievously.  Nevertheless, 
thou  art  my  guest,  and  I  will  not  put  thy  manhood  to 
the  proof  without  thine  own  free  will.  Fill  thy  cup;  let 
us  drink,  sing,  and  be  merry.  If  thou  knowest  ever  a 
good  lay,  thou  shalt  be  welcome  to  a  nook  of  pasty  at 
Copmanhurst  so  long  as  I  serve  the  chapel  of  St. 
Dunstan,  which,  please  God,  shall  be  till  I  change  my 
gray  covering  for  one  of  green  turf.  But  come,  fill 
a  flagon!  A  song!  Friend,  I  drink  to  thy  successful 
performance!      [Theij  driiik] 

The  Knight.  Shall  it  be  a  French  lay  or  a  ballad  in  vulgar 
English? 

The  Hermit.  A  ballad  —  a  ballad.  Downright  English 
am  I,  Sir  Knight,  and  downright  English  was  my  patron 
St.  Dunstan;  and  downright  English  alone  shall  be  sung 
in  this  cell. 


38  Dramatization  r  First  Year 

The  Knight.     I  will  assay  then,  a  })alla(l  composed  l)y  a 
Saxon  gleeman,  whom  1  knew  in  Holy  Land. 

He  sings.     The  Hermit  joins  in  the  singing  from  time 
to  time. 

The  Crusader's  Return 

High  deeds  achieved  of  knightly  fame. 
From  Palestine  the  champion  came; 
The  cross  wpon  his  shoulders  home 
Battle  and  blast  had  dimmed  and  torn. 
Each  dint  wpon  his  hatter' d  shield 
Was  token  of  a  foughten  field; 
And  thus,  beneath  his  lady's  bower. 
He  sung,  as  fell  the  twilight  hour: 

"Joy  to  the  fair! — thy  knight  behold. 
Return  d  from  yonder  land  of  gold; 
No  wealth  he  brings,  nor  wealth  can  need 
Save  his  good  arms  and  battle-steed; 
His  spurs,  to  dash  against  a  foe. 
His  lance  and  sword  to  lay  him,  low; 
Such  all  the  trophies  of  his  toil, 
Such — and  the  hope  of  Tekla's  smile! 

"Joy  to  the  fair!  whose  constant  knight 
Her  favor  fired  to  feats  of  might; 
Unnoted  shall  she  not  remain. 
Where  meet  the  bright  and  noble  train; 
Minstrel  shall  sing  and  herald  tell: 
'Mark  yonder  maid  of  beauty  irell, 
'Tis  she  for  tohose  bright  eyes  icas  icon 
The  listed  field  at  Askalon! 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  39 


""Note  well  her  smile! — it  edged  the  blade 
Which  fiftij  wives  to  icidoics  made. 
When,  vain  his  strength  and  Mahound's  spell, 
Iconiums  turban  d  Soldan  fell. 
Seest  thou  her  locks,  whose  sunny  glow 
Half  shows,  half  shades,  her  neck  of  snow? 
Twines  not  of  them  one  golden  thread. 
Bid  for  its  sake  a  Paynim  bled.' 

"Joy  to  the  fair!  my  name  nnknoicri. 
Each  deed,  and  all  its  praise  thine  own; 
Then  oh!  unbar  this  churlish  gate. 
The  night  dew  falls,  the  hour  is  late 
Lnured  to  Syria's  glowing  breath, 
I  feel  the  north  breeze  chill  as  death; 
Let  grateful  love  quell  maiden  shame 
And  grant  him  bliss  who  brings  thee  fame." 

The  Hermit.  By  the  rood,  a  good  song  and  well  sung  withal. 
And  yet  I  think  my  Saxon  countrymen  had  herded  long 
enough  with  the  Normans  to  fall  into  the  tone  of  their 
melancholy  ditties.  What  took  the  honest  knight  from 
home?  or  what  could  he  expect  but  to  find  his  mistress 
agreeably  engaged  with  a  rival  on  his  return,  and  his 
serenade,  as  they  call  it,  as  little  regarded  as  the  cater- 
wauling of  a  cat  in  the  gutter?  Nevertheless,  Sir  Knight, 
I  drink  this  cup  to  thee,  to  the  success  of  all  true  lovers. 
[He  drains  his  cup  again  but  the  Knight,  before  drinking, 
pours  ivater  into  his  cup. — As  he  observes  this  action  of  the 
Knight]     I  fear  you  are  none. 

The  Knight.  Why,  did  you  not  tell  me  that  this  water 
was  from  the  well  of  your  blessed  patron,  St.  Dunstan? 

The  Hermit.  Ay,  truly,  and  many  a  hundred  of  pagans 
did  he  baptize  there,  but  I  never  heard  that  he  drank  any 


40  Dramatization  [First  Year 

of  it.  Everything  should  he  put  to  its  proper  use  in 
this  world.  St.  Dunstan  knew,  as  well  as  any  one,  the 
prerogatives  of  a  jovial  friar. — Now  hark,  Sir  Knight, 
to  my  song,  The  Barefooted  Friar. 

Si7igs  to  the  tune  of  an  old  English  ditty. 

The  Barefooted  Friar 

I'll  give  thee,  good  fellow,  a  tivelvemonth  or  twain. 
To  search  Europe  through,  from  Byzantium  to  Spain; 
But  ne'er  shall  you  find,  should  you  search  till  you  tire. 
So  happy  a  man  as  the  Barefooted  Friar. 

Your  knight  for  his  lady  pricks  forth  in  career. 

And  is  brought  home  at  evensong  prick 't  through  ivith  a  spear: 

I  confess  him  in  haste — for  his  lady  desires 

No  comfort  on  earth  save  the  Barefooted  Friar's. 

Your  monarch!     Pshaiv!  many  a  prince  has  been  known 

To  barter  his  robes  for  our  cowl  and  our  gown; 

But  ivhich  of  us  e'er  felt  the  idle  desire 

To  exchange  for  a  croum  the  gray  hood  of  a  Friar! 

The  Friar  has  walk'd  out,  and  ichere'er  he  has  gone. 
The  land  and  its  fatness  is  mark' d  for  his  oicn; 
He  can  roam  where  he  lists,  he  can  stop  when  he  tires. 
For  every  man's  house  is  the  Barefooted  Friar's. 

He's  expected  at  noon,  and  no  wight  till  he  comes 
May  profane  the  great  chair,  or  the  porridge  of  plums; 
For  the  best  of  the  cheer,  and  the  seat  by  the  fire. 
Is  the  undenied  right  of  the  Barefooted  Friar. 

He's  expected  at  night,  and  the  pasty's  made  hot. 
They  broach  the  brotvn  ale,  and  they  fill  the  black  pot. 
And  the  goodwife  ivould  2vish  the  goodman  in  the  mire_ 
Ere  he  lacked  a  soft  pillow,  the  Barefooted  Friar. 


First  Year]  Ivailhoe  41 

The  Knight.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  sung  well  and  lus- 
tily, and  in  high  praise  of  thine  order. 

The  Hermit.  And  by  St.  Dunstan,  I  serve  the  duty  of 
my  chapel  duly  and  truly.  Two  masses  daily,  morning  and 
evening,  primes,  noons,  and  vespers,  aves,  credos,  paters — ■ 

The  Knight.  Excepting  moonlight  nights,  when  the 
venison  is  in  season ! 

The  Hermit.     Exceptis    excipiendis,    as    our    old    abbot 
taught  me  to  say  when  impertinent  laymen  should  ask 
me  if  I  kept   every  punctilio   of   mine    order.      Come, 
another  song.  Sir  Knight. 
He  sings. 

The  hottest  horse  loill  oft  he  cool. 

The  dullest  will  show  fire; 
The  friar  will  often  play  the  fool. 

The  fool  ivill  play  the  friar. 

A  loud  knock  sounds  at  the  door,  hut  the  Hermit  and  the 
Knight  pay  no  attention  to  it. 
The  Knight.     Well  sung,  jolly  friar.     How  like  you  this? 
He  sings. 

Come,  troivl  the  hrown  howl  to  me. 

Bully  hoy,  bidly  hoy. 
Come,  trowl  the  brown  bowl  to  me. 

Ho!  jolly  Jenkin,  I  spy  a  knave  in  drinking. 
Come,  troivl  the  brown  bowl  to  me. 

The  Hermit  joins  in  at  the  last  line  and  they  sing  it  all  over 

together.     During  the  singing  the  knocking  continues  at  i}ifcr- 

vals,  finally  becoming  so  insistent  that  the  singers  stop  to  listen. 

The  Hermit.     \lVith    a    grand  flourish]     By    my    beads, 

here  come  more  benighted  guests.     I  would  not  for  my 

cowl  that  they  found  us  in  this  goodly  exercise.     All  men 

have  their  enemies,  good  Sir  Sluggard;  and  there  be  those 


42  Dramatization  rrirstYear 

malignant  enough  to  construe  the  hospitable  refreshment 
which  I  have  been  offering  to  you,  a  weary  traveler,  for 
the  matter  of  three  short  hours,  into  sheer  drunkenness, 
a  vice  alike  alien  to  my  profession  and  my  disposition. 

The  Knight.  Base  calumniators!  I  would  I  had  the 
chastising  of  them.  Nevertheless,  Holy  Clerk,  it  is  true 
that  all  have  their  enemies;  and  there  be  those  in  this 
very  land  whom  I  would  rather  speak  to  through  the 
bars  of  my  helmet  than  barefaced. 

The  Hermit.  [Rising]  Get  thine  iron  pot  on  thy  head  then, 
friend  Sluggard,  as  quickly  as  thy  nature  will  permit,  while 
I  remove  these  pewter  flagons,  whose  late  contents  run 
strangely  in  mine  own  pate;  and  to  drown  the  clatter 
strike  into  the  tune  which  thou  hearest  me  sing.  It  is  no 
matter  for  the  words;   I  scarce  know  them  myself. 

He  strikes  up  a  thundering  "De  Profundis  Clamavi," 
under  cover  of  ivhich  he  removes  the  remains  of  their  ban- 
quet: the  Knight  laughing  heartily,  and  arming  himself  all 
the  while,  assists  his  host  with  his  voice  as  his  mirth 
permits. 

LocKSLEY.  [Without]  What  devil's  matins  are  you  after 
at  this  hour? 

The  Hermit.  Heaven  forgive  you.  Sir  Traveler!  Wend 
on  your  way,  in  the  name  of  God  and  St.  Dunstan,  and 
disturb  not  the  devotions  of  me  and  my  holy  brother. 

Locksley.     [Without]     Mad  priest,  open  to  Locksley ! 

The  Hermit.     [To  the  Knight]     All's  safe  —  all's  right. 

The  Knight.  But  who  is  he?  it  imports  me  much  to 
know. 

The  Hermit.     Who  is  he?     I  tell  thee  he  is  a  friend. 

The  Knight.  But  what  friend?  for  he  may  be  a  friend 
to  thee  and  none  of  mine. 

The  Hermit.  Wliat  friend!  that,  now,  is  one  of  the 
questions    that    is    more    easily    as!.ed    than    answered. 


First  Year]  IvauJlOe  43 

^yhat  friend!  why,  he  is  now  that  I  bethink  me  a  httle, 
the  very  same  honest  keeper  I  told  thee  of  a  while  since. 
The  knocking  continues. 

The  Knight.  Ay,  as  honest  a  keeper  as  thou  art  a  pious 
hermit,  I  doubt  it  not.  But  undo  the  door  to  him  before 
he  beat  it  from  its  hinges. 

The    Hermit    speedily    unbolts    the    door    and    admits 
Locksley,  Gurth,  and  Wamba. 

LocKSLEY.  Why,  hermit,  what  boon  companion  hast  thou 
here? 

The  Hermit.  A  brother  of  our  order;  we  have  been  at  our 
orisons  all  night. 

Locksley.  He  is  a  monk  of  the  church  militant,  I  think, 
and  there  be  more  of  them  abroad.  I  tell  thee,  Friar, 
thou  must  lay  down  the  rosary  and  take  up  the  quarter- 
staff;  we  shall  need  every  one  of  our  merry  men,  whether 
clerk  or  layman.  But  [taking  him  aside]  art  thou 
mad?  to  give  admittance  to  a  knight  thou  dost  not  know? 
Hast  thou  forgot  our  articles? 

The  Hermit.  [Boldly]  Not  know  him!  I  know  him  as 
well  as  the  beggar  knows  his  dish. 

Locksley.     And  what  is  his  name,  then? 

The  Hermit.  His  name,  —  his  name  is  Sir  Anthony  of 
Scrablestone;  as  if  I  would  drink  with  a  man,  and  did 
not  know  his  name ! 

Locksley.  Thou  hast  been  drinking  more  than  enough. 
Friar,  and,  I  fear,  prating  more  than  enough,  too. 

The  Knight.  [Approaching  them]  Good  yeoman,  be  not 
wroth  with  my  merry  host.  He  did  but  afford  me  the 
hospitality  which  I  would  have  compelled  from  him  if 
he  had  refused  it. 

The  Hermit.  [Excitedly]  Thou  compel!  wait  but  till  I 
have  changed  this  gray  gown  for  a  green  cassock,  and  if 
I  make  not  a  quarter-staff  ring  twelve  upon  thy  pate,  I 


44  Dramatization  [First  Year 

am    neither    true    clerk     nor     good     woodsman.     [He 

takes  off  his  gown  and  appears  in  green  hose  and  cassock. — 

To  Wamba]      I   pray    tliee  truss   my   points  and  thou 

shalt  have  a  cuj)  of  sack  for  thy  labor. 
Wamba.     Gramercy  for  thy  sack;  but  think'st  thou  it  is 

lawful  for  me  to  aid  you  to  transmew  thyself  from  a 

holy  hermit  into  a  sinful  forester? 
The  Hermit.     Never  fear,  I  will  but  confess  the  sins  of 

my  green  cloak  to  my  gray  friar's  frock,  and  all  shall 

be  well  again. 
Wamba.     Amen!     A  broadcloth   penitent  should   have   a 

sackcloth   confessor,   and  j'our  frock   may   absolve   my 

motley  doublet  into  the  bargain. 

As    he    talks,    he    assists  in    tying    the    laces    of   the 

HerniiVs  cassock. 
IjOCKsley.     [Leading  the  Knight  a  little  apart]     Deny  it  not. 

Sir  Knight,  you  are  he  who  decided  the  victory  to  the 

advantage  of  the  English  against  the  strangers  on  the 

second  day  of  the  tournament  at  Ashby. 
The  Knight.     And  what  follows  if  you  guess  truly,  good 

yeoman? 
LocKSLEY.     I  should  in  that  case  hold  you  a  friend  to  the 

weaker  party. 
The  Knight.     Such  is  the  duty  of  a  true  knight,  at  least, 

and  I  would  not  willingly  that  there  were  reason  to  think 

otherwise  of  me. 
LocKSLEY.     But  for  mj^  purpose,  thou  shouldst  be  as  well 

a  good  Englishman  as  a  good  knight;  for  that  which  I 

have  to  speak  of  concerns,  indeed,  the  duty  of  every 

honest  man,  but  is  more  especially  that  of  a  true-born 

native  of  England. 
The  Knight.     You  can  speak  to  no  one,  to  whom  England, 

and  thelife  of  everyEnglishman,can  be  dearerthan  to  me. 
LocKSLEY.     I  would  willingly  believe  so,  for  never  had  this 


First  Year] 


Ivanhoe  45 


country  such  need  to  be  supported  by  those  who  love 
her.  Hear  me,  and  I  will  tell  thee  of  an  enterprise,  in 
which,  if  thou  bc'st  really  that  which  thou  seemest,  thou 
mayst  take  an  honorable  part.  A  band  of  villains,  in 
the  disguise  of  better  men  than  themselves,  have  made 
themselves  master  of  the  person  of  a  noble  Englishman, 
called  Cedric  the  Saxon,  together  with  his  ward  and  his 
friend  Athelstane  of  Coningsburgh,  and  have  transported 
them  to  a  castle  in  this  forest,  called  Torquilstone.  I 
ask  of  thee,  as  a  good  knight  and  a  good  Englishman, 
wilt  thou  aid  in  their  rescue? 

The  Knight.  I  am  bound  by  my  vow  to  do  so,  but  I 
would  willingly  know  who  you  are,  who  request  my 
assistance  in  their  behalf? 

LocKSLEY.  I  am  a  nameless  man;  but  I  am  the  friend  of 
my  country,  and  of  my  country's  friends.  With  this 
account  of  me  you  must  for  the  present  remain  satisfied, 
the  more  especially  since  you  yourself  desire  to  continue 
unknown.  Believe,  however,  that  my  word,  when 
pledged,  is  as  inviolate  as  if  I  wore  golden  spurs. 

The  Knight.  I  willingly  believe  it;  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  study  men's  countenances,  and  I  can  read  in 
thine  honesty  and  resolution.  I  will,  therefore,  ask  thee 
no  further  questions,  but  aid  thee  in  setting  at  freedom 
these  oppressed  captives;  which  done,  I  trust  we  shall 
part  better  acquainted  and  well  satisfied  with  each  other. 
They  move  away,  continuing  their  conversation  in  whispers. 

Wamba.  [To  Gurth]  So,  we  have  got  a  new  ally?  I  trust 
the  valor  of  the  knight  will  be  truer  metal  than  the 
religion  of  the  hermit  or  the  honesty  of  the  yeoman;  for 
this  Locksley  looks  like  a  born  deer-stealer,  and  the 
priest  like  a  lusty  hypocrite. 

GuuTii.  Hold  thy  peace,  Wamba;  it  may  all  be  as  thou 
dost  guess;  but  were  the  horned  devil  to  rise  and  proffer 


46  Dramatization  [First  Year 

me  his  assistance  to  set  at  liberty  Cetlric  and  the  Lady 
Rowena,  I  fear  1  should  hardly  have  religion  enough  to 
refuse  the  foul  fiend's  offer,  and  bid  him  get  behind  me. 
The  Hermit  in  the  meantime  has  gone  to  the  cupboard. 
He  selects  a  sword  and  buckler,  and  a  bow  and  quiver,  with 
ichich  he  adorns  himself,  and  finally  takes  a  strong  partizan 
which  he  places  over  his  shoulder.  He  noiv  steps  forward, 
twirling  his  partizan  around  his  head. 

The  Hermit.  Where  be  those  false  ravishers,  who  carry 
off  wenches  against  their  will?  May  the  foul  fiend  fly 
off  with  me,  if  I  am  not  man  enough  for  a  dozen  of  them. 

The  Knight.     [Laughing]     Swearest  thou,  Holy  Clerk? 

The  Hermit.  Clerk  me  no  clerks;  by  St.  George  and  the 
Dragon,  I  am  no  longer  a  shaveling  than  while  my  frock 
is  on  my  back.  When  I  am  cased  in  my  green  cassock, 
I  will  drink,  swear,  and  woo  a  lass,  with  any  blythe 
forester  in  the  West  Riding. 

LocKSLEY.  Come  on.  Jack  Priest,  and  be  silent;  thou  art 
as  noisy  as  a  whole  convent  on  a  holy  eve,  when  the 
Father  Abbot  has  gone  to  bed.  Come  on  you,  too,  my 
masters,  tarry  not  to  talk  of  it — I  say,  come  on;  we 
must  collect  all  our  forces,  and  few  enough  we  shall  have,  if 
we  are  to  storm  the  castle  of  Reginald  Front-de-Boeuf. 

The  Knight.  [In  great  astonishment]  What!  is  it  Front- 
de-Boeuf,  who  has  stopt  on  the  king's  highway  the  king's 
liege  subjects?     Is  he  turned  thief  and  oppressor? 

Locksley.     Oppressor  he  ever  was. 

The  Hermit.  And  for  thief,  I  doubt  if  ever  he  were  even 
half  so  honest  a  man  as  many  a  thief  of  my  acquaintance. 

Locksley.    Move  on,  priest,  and  be  silent ;  it  were  better  j'ou 
led  the  way  to  the  place  of  rendezvous,  than  say  what 
sRould  be  left   unsaid,  both   in  decency  and  prudence. 
They  all  move  off  as  the  curtain  drops. 
Curtain 


First  Year]  Robiii  Hood  Bttllads  47 

ROBIN  HOOD   BALLADS 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  ballad  is  essentially  dramatic;  music  and  dance  and  dialogue 
are  its  elements.  The  early  ballad  was  a  song  and  a  drama;  it  was 
intended  to  minister  to  the  dramatic  instinct  of  the  folk.  Hence,  the 
ballad  lends  itself  readily  to  dramatic  adaptation. 

The  two  following  dramatic  adaptations  are  based  on  the  ballads, 
Robin  Hood  and  Little  John  and  Robin  Hood  and  Allin  a  Dale,  as  given 
in  Gayley  and  Flaherty's,  Poetry  of  the  People,  and  are  used  by  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Ginn  and  Company.  In  the  dramati- 
zation, of  the  first,  the  scene  opens  with  the  meeting  of  Robin  Hood 
and  the  Stranger.  The  situation  is  given  in  stanzas  6  and  7  of  the 
ballad,  but  the  meeting-place  in  the  adaptation  occurs  on  a  forest  path 
instead  of  on  a  bridge,  for  obvious  reasons.  The  dialogue  begins  with 
stanza  7.  It  is  often  necessary  to  change  indirect  to  direct  discourse, 
to  fill  out  lines  from  which  omissions  have  been  made,  and  to  supply 
stanzas  now  and  then,  as  for  instance  the  stanza  0  your  life  is  so  free, 
'tis  the  one  life  for  me.  At  the  end,  a  Robin  Hood  song  is  introduced  to 
make  merry  the  dance.     The  stage  directions  are  based  on  the  stanzas. 

Perhaps  a  word  might  be  said  about  the  fight  that  occurs  in  this 
adaptation.  Care  should  be  taken  not  to  make  it  too  prominent;  and 
it  should  be  brief;  one  or  two  passes  with  the  staves  sufficing. 

The  second  ballad  is  given  in  two  scenes.  In  the  first  scene,  Allin  is 
seized  by  Little  John  and  the  Miller's  Hon  and  brought  before 
Robin;  he  tells  Robin  of  the  loss  of  his  bride,  and  Robin  leaves  in  search 
of  her.  The  opening  situation  is  suggested  by  stanzas  2  and  5.  Action 
begins  with  stanza  6  and  continues  through  14,  closing  with  two  stanzas 
interpolated  for  dramatic  effect. 

In  the  second  scene  Robin,  disguised  as  a  minstrel,  interrupts  the 
wedding  of  the  Knight  and  the  "finnikin  lass"  and  turns  the  tables  on  the 
Knight  and  the  Bishop  by  having  Little  John  perform  the  marriage  service 
for  .\Ilin  and  this  same  "finnikin  lass."  The  scene  occurs  out  of  doors  in- 
stead of  within  the  church  as  in  the  original.  It  closes  with  a  merry  dance 
on  the  green.  Several  bridesmaids  are  introduced  to  make  the  wedding 
scene  more  picturesque  and  to  lend  beauty  to  the  dance.  Tennyson's  song 
from  The  Foresters  is  introduced  as  a  closing  feature.  Changes  are  made  in 
the  text  as  in  the  preceding  adaptation,  and  occasional  lines  and  stanzas 
are  invented,  such  as  Little  John's  speech  blessing  the  bride  and  groom. 

For  suggestions  for  the  incidental  music,  see  Bibliography  (p.  64), 


48  Dramatization  [rirst  Tear 

The  Baptism  of  Little  John 

Characters : 
Robin  Hood.  William  Stutly. 

The  Stranger,  Little  John  Other  Members  of  Robin 

Hood's  Band. 

The  scene  is  the  forest.  Toward  the  front  of  the  stage  is 
an  open  space.  Robin  Hood  and  the  Stranger  are  discovered 
walking  on  a  narrow  forest  path  toivard  each  other.  They 
meet,  but  neither  will  give  way. 

Robin  Hood.     [Trying  to  thrust  the  Stranger  out  of  the  ivay] 
Back  stranger!     'Tis  Robin  that  makes  the  command. 

This  instant,  back !     Out  of  my  way ! 
I'm  bold  Robin  Hood,  I'll  not  be  withstood! 

I  '11  shew  you  right  Nottingham-play ! 

He  draws  an  arrotv  from  his  quiver. 

The  Stranger. 

Thou  talks't  like  a  coward,  a  coward  I  'trow 

Well  arm'd  with  a  long  bow  you  stand, 
To  shoot  at  my  breast,  while  I,  I  protest, 
Have  naught  but  a  staff  in  my  hand. 

Robin  Hood. 

The  name  of  a  coward,  O  stranger,  I  scorn, 

Wherefore  my  long  bow  I  '11  lay  by, 
And  now,  for  thy  sake,  a  staff  will  I  take 

The  truth  of  thy  manhood  to  try. 

While  speaking,  he  steps  to  the  thicket  near  by,  and 
chooses  a  staff.  Then,  running  back,  he  speaks  merrily. 
Lo!  see  my  staff  is  lusty  and  tough, 

Now  here  on  the  path  we  will  play ; 
Whoever  falls  down,  shall  lose  all  renown 

Of  the  battle,  and  so  we'll  away. 


First  Year]  Robiu    IIoOcl    Bcillacls  49 

The  Stranger. 

With  all  my  whole  heart,  O  Robin  the  bold, 

I  scorn  in  the  least  to  give  out; 
Come,  hasten — fall  to  't,    without  more  dispute 

I  '11  lay  you  right  low,  never  doubt. 

They  fujht;  Robin  delivers  a  great  blow,  the  Stranger 
never  flinches;  bid  ivith  his  return  stroke  lays  Robin  low. 
The  Stranger.     [Laughing] 

I  prithee,  good  fellow,  where  art  thou  now, 

With  all  thy  boasting  and  pride? 
Up  quick,  before  any  one  passes  this  way, 

Run  into  the  forest  and  hide! 
Robin  Hood.     [Slowly  recovering,  he  gradually  pulls  himself 
up,  and  looks  irith  frank  admiration  at  the  Stranger] 
I  needs  must  acknowledge  thou  art  a  brave  soul. 

With  thee  I'll  no  longer  contend; 
For  needs  must  I  say,  thou  hast  got  the  day; 

Our  battle  shall  be  at  an  end. 

The  Stranger,  who  has  stepped  back  a  short  distance, 
listens  with  open  astonishment  to  Robin,  then  steps  toward 
him,  but  suddenly  halts  as  Robin  unnds  a  loud  blast  on  his 
horn.  Immediately,  from  all  sides,  Robin's  stout  bowmen 
rush  in,  clothed  in  green  and  bearing  long  bows.  They  snr- 
round  Robin,lookwith  amazement  at  his  plight ,  andcast  angry 
glances  at  the  Stranger,  icho  stands  transfixed  with  wonder. 
William  Stutly.     [E.vcitedly] 

O,  what's  the  matter,  good  master,  O  tell, 

Thy  plight  it  is  awful,  I  trow. 
Robin  Hood. 

No  matter,  my  Willie,  the  lad  which  you  see. 

In  fighting  hath  laid  me  low. 
William  Stutly.     [Rushing  at  the  Stranger] 
He  shall  not  go  scot-free,  l)y  my  faith,  not  he! 

The  dust  of  the  earth  he  shall  wear! 


50  Dramatization  [First  Year 

All  the  bowmen  rush    upon  the  Stranger  who   makes 
ready  to  resist. 
Robin  Hood.     [To  his  hand] 

Hold  men,  touch  him  not,  let  go,  I  command! 

He  is  a  stout  fellow;  forbear! 

[Robin  approaches  the  Stranger  and  offers  his  hand] 
There's  no  one  shall  wrong  thee,  friend,  be  not  afraid; 

These  bowmen  upon  me  do  wait; 
There's  three  score  and  nine;  if  thou  wilt  be  mine. 

Thou  shalt  have  my  livery  straight. 
The  Stranger.     [Grasping  Robin  Hood's  hand] 
O,  here  is  my  hand,  I'll  join  your  bold  band 

And  serve  you  with  all  my  whole  heart; 
You  '11  find  I  '11  be  true  to  men  such  as  you 

Ne  'er  doubt  me  for  I  '11  play  my  part. 
Robin  Hood, 

I  '11  give  you  accoutrements  fit  for  a  man. 

Look  up,  jolly  blade,  never  fear; 
I  '11  teach  you  also  the  use  of  the  bow. 

To  shoot  at  the  fat  fallow  deer. 
The  Stranger. 

O  your  life  is  so  free,  'tis  the  one  life  for  me, 

For  thee  I  '11  leave  kindred  and  home. 
My  name  is  John  Little,  a  man  of  good  mettle 

With  thee  in  the  greenwood  to  roam. 
William  Stutly. 

Thy  name  shall  be  altered,  John  Little,  no  more. 

And  I  will  thy  god-father  be. 

[To  the  others] 
Prepare  now  a  feast  and  none  of  the  least. 

For  we  will  be  merry,  pardee. 

Some  of  the  men  run  oif,  but  soon  return  icith  food  arid 
flagons  of  icine.  They  spread  a  feast  on  the  green.  Others 
form  a  half  circle  about  the   Stranger;  Robin  stands  on 


First  Year]  Robifi  Hood  Bttllads  51 

one    side,    and    Stutly   on    the    other,    officiating    at   the 
christening. 
William  Stutly.     [Pours  from  his  flagon  on  the  Stranger's 

head  as  he  speaks] 
This  infant  was  called  John  Little,  you  know, 

Which  name  shall  be  changed  anon; 
The  words  we'll  transpose,  so  wherever  he  goes, 

His  name  shall  be  called  Little  John. 
The  Stranger. 

'Tis  true  my  good  masters,  I'm  but  seven  feet  high. 

And,  may  be,  an  ell  in  the  waist; 
I'm  little  indeed  and  a  new  name  I  need. 

So  Little  John's  just  to  my  taste. 

They  all  shout  and  laugh  approval  and  drink  his  health. 
Robin  Hood.     [Presenting  him  with  a  curious  long  bow] 
Thou  shalt  be  an  archer  as  well  as  the  best, 

And  range  in  the  greenwood  with  us; 
Where  we'll  not  want  gold  nor  silver,  behold. 

While  bishops  have  aught  in  their  purse. 

We  live  here  like  squires  or  lords  of  renown. 

Each  one  of  us  is  a  free  lance. 
Come,  drink  his  good  health,  and  wish  him  much  wealth, 

And  finish  the  day  with  a  dance. 

They  all  drink  the  health  of  Little  John  and  join  in  a 
merry  woodland  dance.  While  dancing  they  sing  the 
following: 

Song  of  Robin  Hood  and  His  Huntsmen 

Now  ivend  ive  together,  my  merry  men  all. 

Unto  the  forrest  side  a: 
And  there  to  strike  a  buck  or  a  doe. 

Let  our  cunning  all  be  a  tride  a. 


52  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Then  go  ive  merrily,  merrily  on. 

To  the  green-wood  to  take  up  our  stand. 

Where  we  will  lye  in  ivaiie  for  our  game. 
With  our  bent  boives  in  our  hand. 

What  life  is  there  like  to  hold  Robin  Hood's  ? 

It  is  so  pleasant  a  thing  a: 
In  merry  Shirwood  he  spends  his  dayes. 

As  pleasantly  as  a  king  a. 

No  man  may  compare  with  Robin  Hood, 
With  Robin  Hood,  Scathlocke,  and  John. 

Their  like  urns  never,  nor  never  will  be. 
If  in  case  that  they  ivere  gone. 

They  will  not  away  from  merry  Shlnvood 

In  any  place  else  to  dwell; 
For  there  is  neither  city  nor  toione. 

That  likes  them  halfe  so  icell. 

Our  lives  are  wholly  given  to  hunt. 

And  haunt  the  merry  greene-ivood. 
Where  our  best  service  is  daily  spent 

For  our  Master  Robin  Hood. 
Curtain 

The  Marriage  of  Allin  a  Dale 
Scene  I 

Characters : 
Robin  Hood.  Little  John. 

Allin  a  Dale.  Nick,  the  Miller's  Son. 

The  scene  is  the  forest.  At  one  side  of  the  stage,  partly 
hidden,  sits  Robin  busy  with  his  boiv.  Allin  a  Dale  is  dis- 
covered walking  dejectedly  along  the  path. 


First  Year]  Robiii  Hood  Balluds  '  53 

Allin  a  Dale. 

O,  sad  am  I  and  full  of  grief, 

For  my  true  love  is  tanc  away! 

0  woe  is  me,  O  where  is  she, 
Alack  and  a  well  a  day! 

Little  John  and  Nick,  the  Miller's  Son,  appear  suddenly 
and  rush  uj)on  him.     Allin  draics  his  bow. 
Allin. 

Stand  off,  stand  off,  ye  merry  men, 
What  is  your  will  with  me? 
Little  John. 

You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree. 
They  seize  him  and  take  him  before  Robin. 
Robin. 

Why,  who  comes  here  with  look  so  drear, 

Roaming  the  forest  free? 
But  first  what  money  canst  thou  spare      [Rising] 
For  my  merry  men  and  me? 
Allin. 

1  have  no  money,  O  Robin,  my  lord. 

But  five  shillings  and  a  ring; 
And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years 
To  have  it  at  my  wedding. 

Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  is  now  from  nic  tane. 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain. 
Robin. 

What  is  thy  name,  O,  love-lorn  lad, 

Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail. 
Allin. 

By  the  faith  of  my  body,  O,  bold  Robin  Hood, 

My  name,  it  is  Allin  a  Dale. 


54  •  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Robin. 

What  wilt  thou  give  mc,  Allin  a  Dale, 

In  ready  gold  or  fee, 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 
And  deliver  her  unto  thee? 
Allin. 

I  have  no  money,  O  Robin  the  bold. 

No  ready  gold  nor  fee; 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 
Thy  true  servant  for  to  be. 

If  thou  bringest  here  my  sweetheart  dear. 

Thy  servant  I'll  be  for  aye; 
I'll  swear  to  thee  my  faith,  pardee. 

Forever  and  a  day. 

Robin  extends  a  book  toward  Allin,  who  kneels  bejore 
him,  kisses  the  book,  and  then  rises. 
Robin. 

How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love? 

Come  tell  me  without  any  guile. 
Allin. 

By  the  faith  of  my  body,  if  I  speak  true. 

It  is  but  five  little  mile. 
Robin. 

I'll  go  straightway  without  delay! 

To  your  true  love  and  her  knight; 
When  the  blast  you  hear  of  my  bugle  clear. 

Come  and  join  me  in  the  fight. 
Allin. 

O,  gladly  I'll  join  your  merry  men, 

When  I  hear  you  wind  the  blast; 
O  give  her  to  me  and  then  you'll  see 

I'll  never  more  be  downcast. 

Robin  goes  off.  ^^^^^^^ 


First  Year]  Robiu  Hood  Ballcids  55 

Scene  II 

Characters : 
Robin  Hood.  Allin  a  Dale. 

The  Bishop.  Little  John. 

The  Knight.  Robin  Hood's  Band. 

The  Bride.  Bride's  Attendants. 

The  scene  is  the  forest.  The  Bishop  stands  waiting  for 
the  Bride  and  the  Knight.  Enter  Robin,  disguised  as  a  minstrel, 
a  lyre  strung  over  his  shoulder. 

The  Bishop. 

^Vhat  dost  thou  do  here,  what  wilt  thou,  my  man? 
I  i^rithee  now  tell  to  me. 
Robin. 

I  am  a  bold  harper,  Sir  Priest,  you  see. 
And  the  best  in  the  north  country. 
The  Bishop. 

O  welcome,  O  welcome,  mj'  harper  so  bold. 

Thou  shalt  play  at  our  wedding  gay; 
For  the  knight  comes  anon,  with  his  finnikin  lass, 
To  be  married  by  me  today. 
Robin. 

You  shall  have  no  musick.  Sir  Priest,  not  a  note, 

'Till  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  I  see. 
Then  I'll  give  thee  musick  quite  after  thy  heart, 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree. 

Enter  the  Bride,  her  raiment  glistening,  on  the  arm  of 
the  bridegroom,  an  old  knight  richly  dressed.     They  are 
attended  by  a  train  of  maidens  in  wedding  array.      The 
wedding  party  steps  before  the  Bishop. 
Robin.     [Striding  up  to  the  Bishop]. 

This  is  not  a  fit  match  for  this  finnikin  lass. 
That  you  do  seem  to  make  here; 


56  Dramatization  [First  Year 

For  since  we  are  come  unto  this  place, 

The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear. 

Robin  blows  his  horn  three  times.  Immediately  his 
men  come  noshing  in,  Allin  leading,  carrying  Robin  s  long 
bow.  He  delivers  it  to  Robin,  then  shakes  his  fist  at  the 
Knight,  steps  itp  to  the  Bride  and  takes  her  hand.  She 
tur72s  her  back  on  the  Knight  and  seems  much  pleased.  The 
Knight  still  stands  before  the  Bishop  unwilling  to  yield  his 
position.  Robin  turns  to  Allin  a  Dale, 
This  is  thy  true  love,  this  finnikin  lass, 

Young  Allin,  as  I  hear  say, 
And  you  shall  be  married  at  this  same  time 

Before  we  depart  away. 

He  makes  a  sign,  whereupon  his  stout  bowmen  rush  upon 
the  Knight  and  seize  him. 
The  Bishop.     [Shaking  his  fist  threateningly  at  Robin] 
This  shall  not  be,  bold  harper,  I  say, 

For  thy  word  shall  not  stand; 
This  knight  and  this  maid  shall  be  married  by  me. 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land. 

Robin  goes  up  to  the  Bishop,  pulls  off  his  robe  and  hands 
him  over  to  the  men.  Then  he  throws  the  robe  on  Little 
John  and  places  him  where  the  Bishop  had  stood.  At  the 
same  time,  the  men  ivho  have  seized  the  Knight  take  him 
off  and  bind  him  to  a  tree.  Allin  takes  the  place  of  the 
Knight  beside  the  Bride,  who  looks  well  pleased. 
Little  John. 

Who  gives  this  maid  to  many,  I  pray? 
Robin. 

That  do  I,  I,  Robin  the  bold. 
Little  John. 

I  give  her  to  Allin,  to  x\llin  a  Dale 

For  aye  to  have  and  to  hold. 


First  Year]  Robui    Ilood    Bttllads  57 

Allin. 

I  take  her  with  glee.  Sir  Priest,  from  thee. 

For  aye  to  have  and  to  hold; 
And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allin  a  Dale, 

Must  needs  be  very  bold. 
Little  John.     [Blessing  ihem] 

And  now  you  are  married,  my  finnikin  lass. 

To  Allin  a  Dale  by  me; 
A  wedding  most  gay,  on  this  happy  day. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 
Robin. 

Come,  join  hands,  and  finish  this  merry  wedding 

With  a  roundelay  to  our  queen; 
Let  us  sing  loud  and  long  a  gay  wedding  song. 

And  end  with  a  dance  on  the  green. 

They  sing  the  following  song  as  iheij  advance: 

The  So?i(7— (From  Tennyson's  The  Foresters,  Act  II,  Scene  I) 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  he; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where  'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

And  these  shall  wed  icith  freemen. 

And  all  their  sons  be  free, 
To  sing  the  songs  of  England 

Beneath  the  greemvood  tree. 
Curtain 


58  Dramatization  [First  Year 


EPISODES  FROM   THE  ODYSSEY 

Translation  by  Butcher  and  Lang 
PREFATORY   NOTE 

Among  the  many  dramatic  situations  in  Homer's  Odyssey,  the  fol- 
lowing, taken  from  Books  IV  and  V,  respectively,  are  especially  adapted 
to  our  purpose,  because  they  admit  of  very  simple  treatment,  with  an 
open  air  setting. 

Telemachus  at  the  Palace  of  Menelaus 

Characters : 
Telemachus.  Eteoneus. 

Peisisfratus.  Athene. 

Menelaus.  Housekeeper,  Serving  Maids, 

Helen.  and  Dancing  Girls. 

The  stage  represents  the  portico  of  the  palace  of  Mene- 
laus. At  one  side,  or  in  the  rear, is  an  opening  through  which 
a  gleam  of  gold  catches  the  eye,  suggesting  the  splendors  of 
the  palace  within.  The  furniture  consists  of  a  bench,  on  the 
left,  toicard  the  front  of  the  stage,  and  a  chair  on  the  right  for 
Helen.  If  painted  scenery  is  not  available,  pedestals  sur- 
mounted by  Greek  vases,  and  pieces  of  statuary,  placed  in  the 
rear  of  the  stage,  will  help  to  suggest  the  Greek  setting.  As  the 
curtain  rises,  Telemachus  and  Peisisfratus  are  discovered 
entering  the  portico  from  the  right,  near  the  front  of  the  stage; 
Telemachus'  left  arm  is  throicn  about  the  shoidders  of  Peisis- 
tratus,  and  udth  his  right  he  is  pointing  toward  the  opening 
into  the  hall  of  the  palace. 

Telemachus.     Son  of  Nestor,  delight  of  my  heart,  mark  the 
flashing  of  bronze  through  the  echoing  halls,  and  the  flash- 
ing of  gold  and  of  amber  and  of  silver  and  of  ivory.     Such 
like,  methinks,  is   the   court  of  Olympian  Zeus  within. 
Eteoneus,  the  Squire,  enters. 


First  Year]  Tlw    OdySSCy  59 

Eteoneus.  I  have  taken  the  harness  from  your  horses, 
strangers,  and  now  my  master  comes  to  welcome 
you.  He  has  bidden  the  grave  housekeeper  to  set 
food  and  drink  before  you,  giving  freely  of  such  things 
as  she  has  by  her.  But  here  comes  heaven-descended 
Menelaus. 

Menelaus  is  folloiced  by  the  Housekeeper  and  Maids 
bearing  platters  and  vessels  with  food  and  drink,  to  make 
ready  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests. 
Menelaus.     Welcome,    young    strangers,    to    our    high- 
roofed  house!     Taste  ye  food  and  be  glad,  and  thereafter, 
when  ye  have  supped,  we  will  ask  what  men  ye  are;  for 
the  blood  of  your  parents  is  not  lost  in  you,  but  ye  are 
of  the  line  of  men  that  are  sceptred  kings,  the  fosterlings 
of  Zeus:  for  no  churls  could  beget  sons  like  you. 
Peisistratus.     When   we  have  put  from  us  the  desire  of 
meat  and  drink,    heaven-descended   Menelaus,  we    will 
gladly  tell  the  purpose  of  our  coming  hither. 
Menelaus.     Sit  down,  children  dear,  and  while  ye  taste 
food,  we  will  summon  hither  our   maids  to  crown  our 
feast  with  dancing. 

He  commands  Eteoneus   by  a   gesture  to   do  his   bidding, 
then  sits  down  near  his  guests,  who  have  in  the  meantime 
seated  themselves  at  the  table  which  the  Maids  have  placed 
on  the  left,  in  front  of  the  bench.      While  they  are  eating, 
maidens   in    irhite    Greek   goivns,  ivith  garlands  of  flotvers, 
dance   for    their    entertainment.      Toward    the  close   of    the 
dance,  Helen  enters  from  the  right,  opposite  the  two  youths, 
unobserved  by  them,  and  is  joined  by  Menelaus. 
Helen.     [To    Menelaus]      Menelaus,    fosterling    of    Zeus, 
know  we  now  who  these  men  avow  themselves  to  be  that 
have  come  under  our  roof?     Shall  I  dissemble  or  shall 
I  speak  the  truth? 
Menelaus.     I  am  eager  for  thy  thought. 


60  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Helen.  I  am  minded  to  tell  it.  None,  I  say,  have  I  ever 
yet  seen  so  like  another,  man  nor  woman — wonder  comes 
over  me  as  I  look  on  him — as  this  man  is  like  the  son  of 
great  hearted  Odysseus,  Telemachus,  whom  he  left  a 
new-born  child  in  his  house. 

Menelaus.  Now  I  too,  lady,  mark  the  likeness  even  as 
thou  tracest  it.  For  such  as  these  were  his  feet,  such 
his  hands,  and  the  glances  of  his  eyes,  and  his  head,  and 
his  hair  withal. 

Telemachus  catches  the  name  of  Odysseus. 

Telemachus.  [To  Peisistratus]  Odysseus! — O  Peisistratus, 
may  Menelaus,  king  of  men,  give  me  tidings  of  my 
father ! 

Peisistratus.  [Coming  forivard]  Menelaus,  son  of 
Atreus,  fosterling  of  Zeus,  leader  of  the  host,  assuredly 
this  is  the  son  of  that  very  man,  even  as  thou  sayest. 
But  he  is  of  a  sober  wit,  and  thinketh  it  shame  in  his 
heart  as  on  this  his  first  coming  to  make  show  of  pre- 
sumptuous words  in  the  presence  of  thee,  in  whose  voice 
we  twain  delight  as  in  the  voice  of  a  god. 

Menelaus.  Lo!  now  in  good  truth  there  has  come  unto 
my  house  the  son  of  a  friend  indeed,  who  for  my  sake 
endured  many  adventures,  [Goes  to  Telemachus,  iclio  in 
the  meantime,  overcome  with  the  weight  of  his  icoes,  sits 
with  bowed  head]  Dear  child !  son  of  long-tried  Odysseus, 
I  knew  thou  wert  of  the  line  of  heaven-descended  sceptred 
kings.  The  son  of  brave  Odysseus  is  welcome  to  our  home. 
Telemachus  rises,  and  crosses  with  Menelaus  to  the 
right  of  the  stage  where  Helen  stands. 

Helen.  Welcome,  noble  Telemachus,  whom  thy  father 
left  at  home  a  new-born  child,  when  the  Achaeans,  for  my 
sake,  came  under  the  walls  of  Troy,  eager  for  battle. 

Maids  in  the  meantime  remove  the  table,  and  bring  a 
distaff  and  silver  basket  for  Helen,  who  ^its  in  the  chair 


First  Year]  The    OclySSCIJ  61 

already  placed  on  the  right*  of  stage.     Menelans   and  the 
two  youths  seat  themselves  on  the  bench  to  the  left. 

Menelaus.     Wise  Telemachus,  I  thought  to  welcome  him 
on  his  coming  more  nobly  than  all  the  other  Argives,  if 
but  Olympian  Zeus,  of  the  far-borne  voice,  had  vouch- 
safed us  a  return  over -the  sea  in  our  swift  ships. 
Telemachus  covers  his  eyes  with  his  robe. 

Peisistratus.  Nestor  of  Gerenia,  lord  of  chariots,  sent  me 
forth  to  be  his  guide  on  the  way;  for  he  desired  to  see  thee 
that  thou  mightest  put  into  his  heart  some  word  or  work. 
For  a  son  hath  many  griefs  in  his  halls  when  his  father 
is  away,  if  perchance  he  has  none  to  stand  by  him. 

Menelaus.  Sad  it  is  to  lack  a  father's  help.  And  here  in 
far-off  Lacedaemon  we  know  how  sore  beset  by  the  i)roud 
wooers  is  the  wise  Penelope. 

Peisistratus.  Son  of  Atreus,  the  ancient  Nestor  in  his 
own  halls  was  ever  wont  to  say  that  thou  wert  wise 
beyond  man's  wisdom,  whensoever  we  made  mention  of 
thee  and  asked  one  another  concerning  thee.  And  now, 
if  it  be  possible,  be  persuaded  by  me,  who  for  one  have 
no  pleasure  in  weeping  at  supper  time — the  new-born 
day  will  right  soon  be  upon  us.  Not  indeed  that  I  deem 
it  blame  at  all  to  weep  for  any  mortal  who  hath  died  and 
met  his  fate. 

Menelaus.  My  friend,  lo,  thou  hast  said  all  that  a  wise 
man  might  say  or  do,  yea,  and  an  elder  than  thou; — 
for  from  such  a  sire  too,  thou  art  sprung,  wherefore  thou 
dost  even  speak  wisely.  But  we  will  cease  now  the 
weeping  which  was  erewhile  made. 

Helen.      [Turning  to  sorrowing  Telemachus;  pouring  a  sooth- 
ing draught  into  a  boivl]     O  son  of  wise  Odysseus,  drink 
this  healing  draught  to  soothe  thy  sorrow.    Some  comfort 
there  is  in  the  knowledge  of  thy  father's  noble  deeds. 
Telemachus  drinks. 


62  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Menelaus.  To  wliat  end  hatli  tliy  need  })roiight  thee 
liitlier,  hero  Telemaclius,  unto  fair  Lacedaemon,  over 
the  Inroad  back  of  the  sea?  Is  it  a  matter  of  the  common 
weal  or  of  thine  own?     Herein  tell  me  the  plain  truth. 

Telemaciius.  Menelaus,  son  of  At  reus,  fosterling  of  Zeus, 
leader  of  the  host,  I  have  come  if  perchance  thou  mayest 
tell  me  some  tidings  of  my  father.  My  dwelling  is  being 
devoured  and  my  fat  lands  are  ruined,  and  of  unfriendly 
men  my  house  is  full.  So  now,  am  I  come  hitlier  to  thy 
knees,  if  haply  thou  art  willing  to  tell  me  of  his  pitiful 
death,  as  one  that  saw  it  perchance  with  thine  own  eyes, 
or  heard  the  story  from  some  other  wanderer. 

Menelaus.  My  heart  is  moved  by  thine  appeal.  For 
truly  in  the  home  of  a  brave-hearted  man  were  they 
minded  to  lie,  very  cravens  as  they  are ! 

Telemachus.     I  do  entreat  thee — tell  me  the  very  truth ! 

Menelaus.  O  son  of  brave  Odysseus,  tomorrow  ere  thou 
departest,  I  will  tell  thee  all  the  story  of  my  wanderings, 
if  thou  wilt  stay  to  hear.  In  the  river  Aegyptus  much 
I  learned  of  that  ancient  one  of  the  sea,  whose  speech  is 
sooth,  the  deathless  Egyptian  Proteus,  who  knows  the 
depths  of  every  sea,  and  is  the  thrall  of  Poseidon. 

Telemachus.     Of  my  father — did  he  tell  thee  aught  ? 

Menelaus.  When  I  bade  him  declare  me  this,  and  plainly 
tell  me  if  all  those  Achaeans  returned  safe  with  their 
ships,  all  whom  Nestor  and  I  left  as  we  went  from  Troj', 
he  told  me  of  the  fate  of  Ajax,  and  of  the  sad  death  of 
Agamemnon,  shepherd  of  the  people,  slain  by  the  crafty 
Aegisthus. 

Telemachus.     [Excitedly]     And  of  my  father  naught? 

Menelaus.  He  said  there  was  a  third  who  is  yet  living 
and  holden  on  the  wide  deep  —  Laertes'  son,  whose  home 
is  Ithaca. 

Telemachus.     [Changing  quickly  from  joy  to  grief]     Alive? 


First  Year]  Tlw    OdySSCy  63 

— But  where  is  he  delayed?  Why  comes  he  not  to 
save  his  wasting  flocks  and  bring  peace  to  my  mother, 
sorrowing  Penelope. 

Menelaus.  The  ancient  man  of  the  sea  saw  thy  dear 
father,  brave  Odysseus,  on  the  island  of  Ogygia,  in  the 
halls  of  the  nymph,  Calypso,  who  holds  him  there 
perforce;  so  he  may  not  come  to  his  own  country,  for  he 
has  by  him  no  ships  with  oars,  and  no  companions  to 
send  him  on  his  way  over  the  broad  back  of  the  sea. 

Telemachus.  [Kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Menelaus]  O 
Menelaus,  fosterling  of  Zeus,  keep  me  no  longer  here. 
Let  me  go  hence  to  offer  hecatombs  to  the  gods  to  restore 
my  long-absent  father  to  his  home  and  save  us  from 
the  wasteful  wooers. 

Menelaus.  Thou  art  of  gentle  blood,  dear  child,  so  gentle 
the  words  thou  speakest.  But  lo,  now  tarry  in  my  halls 
till  it  shall  be  the  eleventh  day  hence  or  the  twelfth. 
Then  will  I  send  thee  with  all  honor  on  thy  way,  and 
give  thee  splendid  gifts. 

Peisistratus.  Delay  him  not,  O  Son  of  Atrcus!  He 
longs  to  bear  to  the  sorrowing  Penelope  the  tidings  that 
his  father  is  alive  and  may  yet  return. 

Menelaus.  I  do  grant  thy  prayer.  [To  Telemachus] 
So  soon  as  early  Dawn  shines  forth,  the  rosy-fingered, 
shalt  thou  go  upon  thy  way. 

Helen.  O  son  of  brave  Odysseus,  rest  in  the  meantime. 
Here  beneath  the  corridor  I  have  bidden  the  maids  to  set 
the  bedsteads. 

Telemachus.  O  fair-haired  Helen,  let  our  beds  be  brought, 
that  so,  at  last,  lulled  in  sweet  sleep,  we  be  at  ease. 

Menelaus.  Who  knows,  but  yet  the  great  Odysseus  may  re- 
turn and  recompense  the  wooers' crimes!  May  gray -eyed 
Athene  be  thy  friend,  as  formerly  she  aided  great  Odys- 
seus, there  in  the  Trojan  land  where  we  Achaeans  suffered. 


64  Dramatization  [rirst  Tear 

Hel?:n.      And  so  let  comforting  sleep  visit  thine  eyelids. 
The  curtain  goes  down  and  rises  again  on  a   closing 
tableau. 

Tableau 

The  tioo  youths,  one  on  either  side  of  the  stage,  are  discovered 
asleep  on  couches  covered  icith  fur  rugs.  In  the  center  of  the 
stage  stands  Athene,  ivith  right  hand  raised  as  if  in  appeal  to 
Zeus,  and  the  other  outstretched  toward  the  sleeping  Tele- 
machus,  who  is  smiling  happily. 

Curtain 

Hermes'  Visit  to  Calypso 

Characters : 
Calypso.  Odysseus. 

Hermes.  Handmaidens. 

The  stage  represents  the  vine-covered  entrance  to  the  grotto 
of  the  nymph  Calypso.  If  painted  scenery  is  available,  the 
description  in  the  te.vt  may  be  closely  followed;  if  not,  the  sur- 
roundings of  the  grotto  may  be  suggested  by  vines  and  flowers 
on  the  side  and  rear  curtains  and  a  green  floor-covering  to  give 
the  eflect  of  grass,  with  plarits  scattered  here  and  there.  A 
bench  and  table,  preferably  green,  to  make  them  inconspicuous, 
stand  at  one  side  of  the  opening.  Calypso  and  Hermes  are 
discovered,  the  nymph  just  emerging  from  the  grotto,  Hermes  at 
one  side  of  the  stage.  Calypso  greets  Hermes  somewhat 
coldly  but  with  a  certain  degree  of  awe. 

Calypso.  Wherefore,  I  pray  thee,  Hermes,  of  the  golden 
wand,  hast  thou  come  hither,  worshipful  and  welcome, 
whereas  of  old  thou  wert  not  wont  to  visit  me.^  Tell  me 
all  thy  thought;  my  heart  is  set  on  fulfilling  it,  if  fulfil  it 
I  may.  But  after  thou  hast  supped  and  comforted  thy 
soul  with  food,  then  thou  mavest  answer  me. 


First  Year]  TJic  Odyssey  65 

Calypso  enters  the  care.     While  she  is  gone,  Hermes 

looks  with  admiration  upon  the  surroundings  of  the  grotto. 
Hermes.     [Alone]     This  is  a  pleasant  spot  to  rest.     Here, 

even  an  immortal  may  feast  his  eyes  and  at  the  sight 

be  glad  at  heart. 

Calypso    rettirns,    accompanied    by    tico    handmaidens 

hearing  food  and  drink,  which  they  place  on  the  table. 
Hermes.     [Sitting  down]     Thou  niakest  question  of  me  on 

my  coming,  a  goddess  of  a  god,  and  I  will  tell  thee  this, 

my  saying  truly,  at  thy  command. 
Calypso.     Do    not    be    in    haste.     My    grotto,    even    an 

immortal  may  find  a  pleasant  spot. 
Hermes.     Who  of  his  free  will  would  speed  over  such  a 

wondrous  space  of  brine? 
Calypso.     To  thee,  Hermes  of  the  golden  wand,   whose 

lovely  sandals  that  wax  not  old,  bear  thee  alike  over  the 

wet  sea  and  over  the  limitless  land,  swift  as  the  breath 

of  the  wind,  the  way  cannot  seem  so  long. 
Hermes.     Interminable!     Whereby  is  no  city  of  mortals 

that  do  sacrifice  to  the  gods,  and  offer  choice  hecatombs. 

But  surely  it  is  in  no  wise  possible  for  another  god  to  go 

beyond  or  to  make  void  the  purpose  of  Zeus,  lord  of 

the  aegis. 
Calypso.     The  will  of  Zeus,  lord  of  the  aegis? 
Hermes.     Yea,  fair-haired  nymph.  —  'Twas  Zeus  that  bade 

me  come  hither,  by  no  will  of  mine. 
Calypso.     Thy  message,  Hermes  of  the  golden  wand? 
Hermes.     He  saith  that  thou  hast  with  thee  a  man  most 

wretched  beyond  his   fellows,   beyond   those   men  that 

round  the  burg  of  Priam  for  nine  years  fought,  and  in 

the  tenth  year  sacked  the  city  and  departed  homeward. 

Yet  on  the  way  they  sinned  against  Athene,  and  she 

raised  upon  them  an  evil  blast  and  long  waves  of  the  sea. 

Then  all  the  rest  of  his  good  company  was  lost,  but  it 


66  Dramatization  [First  rear 

came  to  pass  that  the  wind  bare  and  the  wave  brought 
him  hither.  And  now  Zeus  biddcth  thee  send  him  hence 
witli  wluit  speed  thou  mayest. 

Calypso.  Why  should  he  be  unhappy  on  this  peaceful 
island? 

Hermes.  It  is  not  ordained  that  he  die  away  from  his 
friends,  but  rather  it  is  his  fate  to  look  on  them  even  yet, 
and  to  come  to  his  high-roofed  home  and  his  own  country. 

Calypso.  [Shuddering]  Hard  are  ye  gods  and  jealous 
exceeding,  who  now  grudge  that  a  mortal  man  should 
dwell  with  me.     Yet  him  I  saved! 

Hermes.     Have  regard  unto  the  wrath  of  Zeus! 

Calypso.  Yea,  forasmuch  as  it  is  in  no  wise  possible  for 
another  god  to  make  void  the  purpose  of  Zeus,  lord  of 
the  aegis,  let  him  away  over  the  unharvested  seas,  if 
the  summons  and  the  bidding  be  of  Zeus. 

Hermes.  Even  so  then  let  him  go;  despatch  him  on  his  way! 

Calypso.  Nay,  I  will  give  him  no  despatch,  not  I,  for  I 
have  no  ships  by  me  with  oars,  nor  company  to  bear  him 
on  his  way  over  the  broad  back  of  the  sea.  Yet  will  I 
be  forward  to  put  this  in  his  mind,  and  will  hide  nought, 
that  all  unharmed  he  may  come  to  his  own  country. 

Hermes.  Yonder  he  comes.  I  must  depart  over  the  broad 
back  of  the  sea.  But  let  him  go  quickly  hence.  Let 
not  the  wrath  of  Zeus  grow  hot  against  thee ! 

Hermes   departs.     Odysseus   enters    ivith   head    bowed, 
his  whole  bearing  suggestive  of  despondency. 

Calypso.  Hapless  man,  sorrow  no  more  I  pray  thee  in  this 
isle,  nor  let  thy  good  life  waste  away,  for  even  now  will 
I  send  thee  hence  with  all  my  heart.  [Odysseus  lifts 
his  head  in  surprise]  Nay,  arise  and  cut  long  beams, 
and  fashion  a  wide  raft  with  the  axe,  and  lay  deckings 
high  thereupon,  that  it  may  bear  thee  over  the  misty 
deep. 


First  Year]  The  Odysscy  67 

Odysseus.  ,  [Seating  himself  wearily]  Herein,  goddess, 
thou  hast  plainly  some  other  thought,  and  in  no  wise  my 
furtherance,  for  that  thou  biddest  me  to  cross  in  a  raft 
the  great  gulf  of  the  sea  so  dread  and  difficult,  which  not 
even  the  swift  gallant  ships  pass  over  rejoicing  in  the 
breeze  of  Zeus. 

Calypso.  No  other  purpose  have  I.  I  will  supply  thee 
with  bread  and  water,  and  red  wine  to  thy  heart's  desire, 
to  keep  hunger  far  away.  .  And  I  will  i)ut  raiment  upon 
thee  and  send  a  fair  gale  in  thy  wake,  that  so  thou  may- 
est  come  all  unharmed  to  thine  own  country,  if  indeed 
it  be  the  good  pleasure  of  the  gods  who  hold  wide  heaven, 
who  are  stronger  than  I  am  both  to  will  and  to  do. 

Odysseus.  [Still  incredulously]  Never  will  I  go  aboard  a 
raft  unless  thou  wilt  deign,  O  goddess,  to  swear  a  great 
oath  not  to  j)lan  any  hidden  guile  to  mine  own  hurt. 

Calypso.  [Smiling  upon  Odysseus  and  seating  herself  by  his 
side]     Knavish  thou  art,  and  no  weakling  in  wit! 

Odysseus.     I  have  been  long  tried. 

Calypso.  How  hast  thou  conceived  and  spoken  such  a 
word!  [Rising]  Let  earth  be  now  witness  hereto,  and 
the  wide  heaven  above,  and  that  water  of  the  Styx  that 
flows  below,  the  greatest  oath  and  the  most  terrible  to 
the  blessed  gods,  that  I  will  not  ])lan  any  hidden  guile  to 
thine  own  hurt. 

Odysseus.  So  long  the  gods  have  tossed  me  on  the  wine- 
dark  deep,  I  cannot  yet  believe  I  shall  set  forth  ui)on  ray 
homeward  way. 

Calypso.  My  thoughts  are  such,  and  such  will  be  my 
counsel,  as  I  would  devise  for  myself,  if  ever  so  sore  a  ne(?d 
came  over  me.  For  I  too  have  a  righteous  mind,  and  my 
heart  within  me  is  not  of  iron,  but  pitiful  even  as  thine. 
[Falling  on  her  knees  at  his  feet]  Son  of  Laertes,  of  the 
seed  of  Zeus,  Odysseus  of  many  devices,  so  it  is  indeed 


68  Dramatization  [First  Year 

thy  wish  to  get  thee  home  to  thine  own  dear  country, 
even  in  this  hour,  to  see  thy  wife,  for  whom  thou  hast  ever 
a  desire  day  by  day?  Yet  I  avow  me  to  he  not  less  noble 
than  she  in  form  or  fashion. 

She  rises  and  goes  to  the  opposite  side,  standing  against 
a  background  of  vines. 

Odysseus.  Be  not  wroth  with  me  hereat,  goddess  and 
queen.  Myself,  I  know  it  well,  how  wise  Penelope  is 
meaner  to  look  upon  thaji  thou,  in  comeliness  and 
stature.  But  she  is  mortal  and  thou  knowest  not  age 
nor  death.  Yet  even  so,  I  wish  and  long  day  by  day 
to  fare  homeward  and  see  the  day  of  my  returning. 

Calypso.  Yet  didst  thou  know  in  thine  heart  what  a 
measure  of  suffering  thou  art  ordained  to  fulfil,  or  ever 
thou  reach  thine  own  country,  here,  even  here,  thou 
wouldst  abide  with  me  and  keep  this  house,  and  wouldst 
never  taste  of  death. 

Odysseus.  [Rising]  Nay,  and  if  some  god  shall  wreck 
me  in  the  wine-dark  deep,  even  so  I  will  endure,  with  a 
heart  within  me  patient  of  affliction.  For  already  have 
I  suffered  full  much,  and  much  have  I  toiled  in  perils  of 
waves  and  war;  let  this  be  added  to  the  tale  of  those. — 
But  let  me  go  I  pray. 

Calypso.  So  soon  as  early  Dawn  shines  forth,  the  rosy- 
fingered,  I  will  show  thee  where  the  trees  grow  tall  and 
furnish  thee  with  all  that  is  needful  to  build  thy  broad- 
beamed  raft.  Farewell  then,  even  so!  AVhen  the  fourth 
day  comes,  thou  wilt  have  accomplished  all.  It  is  the 
will  of  Zeus,  lord  of  the  aegis ! 

Calypso,  'pointing  toward  the  sky  with  her  right  hand 
extends  her  left  toward  Odysseus,  in  sorrow  at  the  thought 
of  parting.  Odysseus,  kneeling,  takes  the  outstretched  hand, 
and  looks  up  into  the  face  of  the  nymph  with  an  expression 
of   gratitude.      The   curtain  goes  down   on   this  tableau. 


First  Year]  The  Odyssey  69 


TABLEAUX  FROM    THE  ODYSSEY,   WITH 
DESCRIPTI VE   RE  A  1)1  XGS 

(Translation  by  Butcher  and  Lang) 
PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  following  tableaux  are  planned  to  suggest  the  story  of  the 
Odyssey.  The  Reader  for  each  scene  is  dressed  in  Greek  costume  and 
stands  as  near  the  edge  of  the  stage  as  possible,  and  off  to  one  side,  so 
as  not  to  obscure  the  view  or  mar  the  picture.  One  Reader  may  be  used 
throughout,  or  different  Readers  for  the  various  descriptions. 

The  following  is  an  appropriate  setting  for  all  the  tableaux:  a  long 
curved  seat  draped  in  white  to  represent  marble,  and  placed  well  to  the 
rear;  a  number  of  white-draped  screens  making  a  continuous  curved 
wall,  about  two  feet  back  of  the  seat,  allowing  space  for  the  grouping 
of  characters  in  the  longer  tableaux;  against  the  curtain  in  the  rear,  on 
the  right,  a  tall  white  pedestal  surmounted  by  a  Greek  vase,  and  on 
the  left,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ceiling,  a  slender  pine  sapling  sugges- 
tive of  the  sky-stretching  pine  of  the  Odyssey.  This  setting  is  based 
upon  the  Alma  Tadema  picture,  "A  Reading  from  Homer."  Painted 
scenery  may  be  substituted  for  the  curtain  as  a  backgroimd,  but  is  not 
essential. 

The  curved  seat,  supplemented  by  stools,  affords  sufficient  room  for 
grouping  the  seated  figures  in  the  middle-distance  in  the  more  elaborate 
taljleaux.  As  in  photographs  of  large  groups,  some  stand  in  the  back- 
ground, others  are  seated  on  the  floor.  With  this  arrangement,  few 
changes  in  the  setting  are  necessary  for  the  different  tableaux.  The 
front  of  the  stage  is  left  free  for  the  central  figures.  The  picture  is  in 
every  case  suggested  by  the  descriptive  reading.  Where  the  text  does 
not  furnish  sufficient  details,  these  must  be  worked  out  by  the  instructor 
in  charge. 

Tableau  I 
Athene's  Appeal  to  Zeus 

Readincj  before  curtain  rises. 

And  the  goddcs.s,  gray-eyed  Athene,  an.swered  him, 
saying: 

"O  father,  our  father  Kronides,  tlironed  in  tlie  highest; 
my  heart  is  rent  for  wise  Odysseus,  tlie  hapless  one,  who 


70  Dramatization  i  First  Year 

far  from  his  friends  this  long  while  suffereth  affliction  in 
a  seagirt  isle,  where  is  the  navel  of  the  sea,  a  woodland 
isle,  and  therein  a  goddess  hath  her  habitation,  the 
daughter  of  the  wizard  Atlas.  Wherefore  wast  thou 
then  so  wroth  with  him,  O  Zeus?" 

And  Zeus,  the  cloud-gatherer  answered  her,  and  said: 

"My  child,  what  word  hath  escaped  the  door  of  thy 
lips?  Yea,  how  should  I  forget  divine  Odj'sseus,  who 
in  understanding  is  beyond  mortals  and  beyond  all  men 
hath  done  sacrifice  to  the  deathless  gods,  who  keep  the 
wide  heaven?  Nay,  but  it  is  Poseidon,  the  girdler  of  the 
earth,  that  hath  been  wroth  continually  with  quenchless 
anger  for  the  Cyclops'  sake  whom  he  blinded  of  his  eye, 
even  godlike  Polyphemus,  whose  power  is  mightiesi 
amongst  all  the  Cyclops." 

Then  the  goddess,  gray-eyed  Athene,  answered  him, 
and  said: 

Curtain  rises.     Reading  for  tableau. 

"O  father,  our  father  Kronides,  throned  in  the  highest, 
if  indeed  this  thing  is  now  well  pleasing  to  the  blessed 
gods,  that  w4se  Odysseus  should  return  to  his  own  home, 
let  us  then  speed  Hermes,  the  Messenger,  the  slayer  of 
Argos,  to  the  island  of  Ogygia.  There  with  all  speed,  let 
him  declare  to  the  lady  of  the  braided  tresses  our  unerr- 
ing counsel,  even  the  return  of  the  patient  Odysseus, 
that  so  he  may  come  to  his  home.  But  as  for  me,  I  will 
go  to  Ithaca  that  I  may  rouse  his  son  yet  the  more, 
planting  might  in  his  heart.  And  I  will  guide  him  to 
Sparta  and  to  sandy  Pylos  to  seek  tidings  of  his  dear 
father's  return,  if  peradventure  he  may  hear  thereof, 
and  that  so  he  may  be  had  in  good  report  among  men." 
Curtaiti 


First  Year]  The  Odyssey  71 

Tableau  II 
Telemaciius'  Addkess  to  the  Wooers 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

Now  the  wooers  clamored  throughout  the  shadowy 
halls  and  wise  Tclemachus  first  spake  among  them: 

"Wooers  of  my  mother,  men  desj)iteful  out  of  measure, 
let  us  feast  now  and  make  merry  and  let  there  be  no 
brawling;  for,  lo,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  list  to  a  minstrel 
such  as  him,  like  to  the  gods  in  voice.  But  in  the 
morning  let  us  all  go  to  the  assembly  and  sit  us  down, 
that  I  may  declare  my  saying  outright,  to  wit  that  ye 
leave  these  halls." 

Curtain  rises.  Reading  for  tableau. 
"And  busy  yourselves  with  other  feasts,  eating  your 
own  substance,  going  in  turn  from  house  to  house.  But 
if  ye  deem  this  a  likelier  and  a  better  thing,  that  one 
man's  goods  should  perish  without  atonement,  then 
waste  ye  as  ye  will;  and  I  will  call  upon  the  everlasting 
gods,  if  haply  Zeus  may  grant  that  acts  of  recompense 
be  made;  so  should  ye  hereafter  perish  within  the  halls 
without  atonement." 

Curtain 

Tableau  III 

The  Recognition  of  Telemachus  at  the  Home 
OF  Menelaus 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

And  jNIcnelaus  marked  Telemachus  and  mused  in  his 
mind  and  his  heart  whether  he  should  leave  him  to  speak 
of  his  father,  or  first  question  him  and  prove  him  in  every 
word.  While  yet  he  pondered  these  things  in  his  mind 
and  in  his  heart,  Helen  came  forth  from  her  fragrant 
vaulted  chamber,   like   Artemis   of   the  golden   arrows. 


72  Dramatization  rrirBt  Toai 

Approaching  Mcnelaiis,  anon  she  spake  to  her  h:)rd  and 
questioned  him  of  each  thing: 

Curtain  rises.     Reading  for  tableau. 

"Menelaus,  fosterling  of  Zeus,  know  we  now  who 
these  men  avow  themselves  to  be  that  have  come  under 
our  roof?  Shall  I  dissemble  or  shall  I  speak  the  truth? 
Nay,  I  am  minded  to  tell  it.  None,  I  say,  have  I  ever 
yet  seen  so  like  another,  man  nor  woman — wonder 
comes  over  me  as  I  look  on  him — as  this  man  is  like 
the  son  of  great-hearted  Odysseus,  Telemachus,  whom  he 
left  a  new-born  child  in  his  house,  when  for  the  sake  of 
me,  ye  Achaeans  came  up  under  Troy  with  bold  war  in 
your  hearts." 

Curtain 

Tableau  IV 
Penelope  Awaiting  the  Return  of  Telemachus 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

But  the  wise  Penelope  lay  there  in  her  upper  chamber, 
fasting  and  tasting  neither  meat  nor  drink,  musing 
whether  her  noble  son  should  escape  death,  or  even  fall 
before  the  proud  wooers.  So  was  she  musing  when  deep 
sleep  came  over  her.  And  she  sank  back  in  sleep  and 
all  her  joints  were  loosened. 

Now  the  goddess,  gray-eyed  Athene,  turned  to  other 
thoughts.  She  made  a  phantom,  and  fashioned  it  after 
the  likeness  of  a  woman,  Iphthime,  daughter  of  great- 
hearted Icarius.  And  she  sent  it  to  the  house  of  divine 
Odysseus  to  bid  Penelope,  amid  her  sorrow  and  lamenting 
to  cease  from  her  weeping  and  tearful  lamentation. 
So  the  phantom  passed  into  the  chamber  by  the  thong 
of  the  bolt,  and  stood  above  her  head  and  spake  unto 
her,  saying: 


First  Tear]  The  Odysseij  73 

Curtain  rises.     Reading  for  tableau. 

"Sleepest  tliou,  Penel()i)c,  stricken  at  heart?  Nay, 
even  the  gods  who  live  at  ease  suffer  thee  not  to  wail  or 
be  afflicted,  seeing  that  thy  son  is  yet  to  return;  for  no 
sinner  is  he  in  the  eyes  of  the  gods.  Take  courage,  and 
be  not  so  sorely  afraid.  For  lo,  such  a  friend  goes  to 
guide  him,  as  all  men  pray  to  stand  by  them,  for  that  she 
hath  the  power,  even  Pallas  Athene.  And  she  j)itieth 
thee  in  thy  sorrow,  and  now  hath  sent  me  forth  to  speak 
these  words  to  thee". 

Curtain 

Tableau  V 
The  Departure  of  Odysseus  from  Ogygia 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

So  soon  as  early  Dawn  shone  forth,  the  rosy-fingered, 
anon  Odysseus  put  on  him  a  mantle  and  doublet.  And 
now  Calypso  led  the  way  to  the  border  of  the  isle  where 
tall  trees  grew,  alder  and  poplar,  and  pine  that  reachcth 
to  heaven,  seasoned  long  since  and  sere  that  might 
lightly  float  for  him.  Now  after  she  had  shown  him 
where  the  tall  trees  grew,  Calypso,  the  fair  goddess, 
departed  homeward.  And  he  set  to  cutting  limber, 
and  his  work  went  busily.  It  was  the  fourth  day  when 
he  had  accomplished  all.  And,  lo,  on  the  fifth,  the  fair 
Cal^q^so  sent  him  on  his  way  from  the  island. 

Curtain  rises.     Reading  for  tableau. 

Moreover,  the  goddess  gave  him  two  skins,  one  of  dark 
wine,  and  another,  a  great  one,  of  water,  and  corn,  too, 
in  a  wallet,  and  a  store  of  dainties  to  his  heart's  desire, 
and  sent  forth  a  warm  and  gentle  wind  lo  blow. 
Curtain 


74  Dramatization  [First  Year 

Tableau  VI  (Motion  Pictures) 
Arrival  of  Odysseus  in  the  Land  of  the  Phaeacians 

1.  The  Game  of  Ball. — Nausicaa's  Maids. 

2.  The  Meeting  of  Odysseus  and  Nausicaa. 
Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

Now  when  Nausicaa  and  her  maids  were  come  to  the 
beautiful  stream  of  the  river,  where  truly  were  the 
unfailing  cisterns,  and  bright  water  welled  up  from 
beneath,  and  flowed  past,  there  the  girls  unharnessed 
the  mules  from  the  chariot.  Then  they  took  the 
garments  from  the  wain,  in  their  hands,  and  bore  them 
to  the  black  water  and  briskly  trod  them  down  in  the 
trenches,  in  busy  rivalry.  Now  when  they  had  washed 
and  cleansed  all  the  stains,  they  spread  all  out  in  order 
along  the  shore  of  the  deep,  even  where  the  sea  in  beating 
on  the  coast,  washed  the  pebbles  clean.  Anon,  when 
they  were  satisfied  with  food,  the  maidens  fell  to  playing 
at  ball,  casting  away  their  tires.  Nausicaa  of  the  white 
arms  watched  their  sport.  And  as  they  played,  the 
goodly  Odysseus  awoke  and  sat  up  pondering  in  his 
heart  and  spirit: 

"Woe  is  me!  to  what  men's  land  am  I  come  now? 
say,  are  they  froward,  and  wild,  and  unjust,  or  are  they 
hospitable  and  of  God-fearing  mind?  How  shrill  a  cry 
of  maidens  rings  round  me,  of  the  nymphs  that  hold 
the  steep  hill-tops,  and  the  river-springs,  and  the  grassy 
water  meadows!  It  must  be,  methinks,  that  I  am  near 
men  of  human  speech.  Go  to,  I,  myself  will  make  trial 
and  see." 

Therewith  the  goodly  Odysseus  crept  out  from  under 
the  coppice  to  meet  the  maids.  And  they  fled  cowering 
here  and  there  about  the  jutting  spits  of  the  shore. 


First  Year]  Tlw    OdySSeiJ  75 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  tableau  presenting  Nausicad 
at  the  right,  near  the  front  of  the  stage,  watching  her  maidens, 
posed  for  the  first  position  of  a  hall  game  such  as  is  taught 
in  high-school  physical  culture  work.  At  a  given  signal, 
the  music  begins  and  the  game  proceeds.  The  Reader 
remains  in  position.  Just  before  the  close  of  the  game, 
Odysseus  appears  at  the  left,  stands  a  moment,  and  is  seen  by 
the  maidens,  icho  throiv  down  their  bcdls  and  run  of  the 
stage  in  different  directions,  leaving  Nausicad  and  Odys- 
seus alone.  Odysseus  approaches  Nausicad  to  center  of 
stage,  and  stands  with  outstretched  arms  during  the  reading 
of  the  following  passage. 

And  the  daughter  of  Alcinoiis  alone  stood  firm  to  meet 
him.    So  straightway  he  spake  a  sweet  and  cunning  word : 

"I  supplicate  thee,  O  queen!  Grievous  sorrow  is  upon 
me.  Yesterday,  on  the  twentieth  day,  I  escaped  from 
the  wine-dark  deep,  but  all  that  time  continually  the 
wave  bare  me,  and  the  vehement  winds  drave,  from  the 
isle  Ogj^gia.  Then,  queen,  have  pity  on  me,  for  after 
many  trials  and  sore,  to  thee  first  of  all  am  I  come.  Show 
me  the  town.  And  may  the  gods  grant  thee  all  thy 
heart's  desire. 

The  pose  changes  on  cue  "  Then  Nausicaa  of  the  white 
arms  answered  him."  Nausicad  turns  as  if  addressing 
Odysseus,  and  points  toward  the  city  in  the  distance.  The 
reading  does  not  stop  during  this  change  of  pose. 

Then  Nausicaa  of  the  white  arms  answered  him, 
and  said:  "Stranger,  forasmuch  as  thou  seemest  no  evil 
man  nor  foolish,  I  will  show  thee  the  town,  and  name  the 
name  of  the  people.  The  Phaeacians  hold  tliis  city  and 
land,  and  I  am  the  daughter  of  Alcinoiis,  great  of  heart, 
on  whom  all  the  might  and  force  of  the  Phaeacians 
depend. 

Curtain 


76  Dramatization  [First  Tear 

Tableau  VII 
Odysseus'  Appeal  to  Arete 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

Now  the  steadfast  goodly  Odysseus  went  through  the 
house,  clad  in  a  thick  mist,  which  Athene  shed  around 
him,  till  he  came  to  Arete  and  the  king  Alcinoiis.  And 
Odysseus  knelt  at  the  feet  of  Arete  and  then  it  was  that 
the  wondrous  mist  melted  from  off  him,  and  a  silence  fell 
on  them  that  were  within  the  house  at  the  sight  of  him, 
and  they  marvelled  as  they  beheld  him.  Then  Odysseus 
began  his  prayer: 

Curtain  rises  on  tableau  —  Odysseus  at  the  feet  of  Arete. 
This  'picture  represents  the  court  of  Alcinoiis  —  with  bard, 
flower-maidens,  pages,  etc. 

Reading  for  tableau. 

"Arete,  daughter  of  god-like  Rhexenor,  after  many 
toils  am  I  come  to  thy  husband  and  to  thy  knees  and  to 
these  guests,  and  may  the  gods  vouchsafe  them  a  happy 
life,  and  may  each  one  leave  to  his  children  after  him  his 
substance  in  his  halls  and  whatever  dues  of  honor  the 
people  have  rendered  unto  him.  But  speed,  I  pray  you, 
my  parting  right  quickly,  that  I  maj'  come  to  mine  own 
country,  for  already  too  long  do  I  suffer  afHiction  far 
from  my  friends." 

Curtain 

Tableau  VIII 

Odysseus  Relating  His  Story  at  the  Court  of 
Alcinous 

The  group  is  the  same  as  for  the  previous  tableau,  with 
positions  slightly  changed.  Odysseus,  on  a  stool  in  the 
center,  is  relating  his  story. 


First  Year]  The  Oclyssey  11 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

And  Odysseus  of  manj^  counsels  answered  him 
saying:  "King  Alcinoiis,  most  notable  of  all  the  people, 
there  is  no  more  gracious  or  perfect  delight  than  when  a 
whole  people  makes  merry,  and  the  men  sit  orderly  at 
feast  in  the  halls  and  listen  to  the  singer,  and  the  tables 
by  them  are  laden  with  bread  and  flesh,  and  a  wine- 
bearer  drawing  the  Avine  serves  it  round  and  pours  it  into 
the  cups.  But  now  thy  heart  was  inclined  to  ask  my 
grievous  troubles,  that  I  may  mourn  for  more  exceeding 
sorrow.  What  then  shall  I  tell  of  first,  what  last? 
First,  I  will  tell  my  name,  that  ye,  too,  may  know  it." 

Curtain  rises.  Reading  for  tableau. 
"1  am  Odysseus,  son  of  Laertes,  who  am  in  men's 
minds  for  all  manner  of  wiles,  and  my  fame  reaches  unto 
heaven.  And  I  dwell  in  clear-seen  Ithaca,  wherein  is 
a  mountain  Neriton,  standing  manifest  to  view.  And 
for  myself  I  can  see  nought  beside  sweeter  than  a  man's 
own  country.  Surely  there  is  nought  sweeter  than  a 
man's  own  country  and  his  parents,  even  though  he 
dwell  far  off  in  a  rich  home,  in  a  strange  land,  away 
from  them  that  begat  him.  But  come,  let  me  tell  thee 
too  of  the  troubles  of  my  journeying,  which  Zeus  laid 
on  me  as  I  came  from  Troy." 

Curtain 

Tableau  IX 
The  Meeting  of  Odysseus  and  Telemachus 

Reading  before  curtain  rises. 

And  now  Odysseus  went  into  the  hut,  and  his  dear 
son  marvelled  at  him  and  looked  away  for  fear  lest  it 
should  be  a  god,  and  he  uttered  his  voice  and  spake  to 
him  in  winged  words: 


78  Dramatization  [First  Year 

"Even  now,  stranger,  thou  art  other  in  my  sight  than 
that  thou  wcrt  a  moment  sinee,  and  other  garments 
thou  hast,  and  the  cohjr  of  thy  skin  is  no  longer  the  same. 
Surely  thou  art  a  god  of  those  that  keep  the  wide  heaven. 
Nay,  then,  be  gracious,  that  we  may  offer  to  thee  well- 
pleasing  sacrifices  and  golden  gifts,  beautifully  wrought; 
and  spare  us,  I  pray  thee."  Then  the  steadfast  goodly 
Odysseus  answered  him,  saying: 

Curtain  rises  for  two  pictures.  First  pose, — Telemachus 
gazing  icith  aive  upon  his  father.     Reading  for  tableau. 

"Behold,  no  god  am  I;  why  likenest  thou  me  to  the 
immortals?  Nay,  thy  father  am  I,  for  whose  sake  thou 
sufferest  many  pains  and  groanest  sore,  and  submittest 
thee  to  the  despite  of  men." 

But  Telemachus  (for  as  yet  he  believed  not  that  it 
was  his  father)  answered  in  turn  and  spake: 

"Thou  art  not  Odysseus,  my  father,  but  some  god 
beguiles  me,  that  I  may  groan  for  more  exceeding 
sorrow." 

Then  Odysseus  of  many  counsels,  answered  him 
saying: 

"Telemachus,  it  fits  thee  not  to  marvel  overmuch 
that  thy  father  is  come  home,  or  to  be  amazed." 

Second  pose  as  reading  continues.  Telemachus^  expres- 
sion changes  to  one  of  joy  as  Odysseus  extends  his  hands 
toward  him. 

"Nay  for  thou  shalt  find  no  other  Odysseus  come  hither 
any  more;  but  lo,  I,  all  as  I  am,  after  suffering  and 
much  wandering  have  come  in  the  twentieth  year  to  mine 
own  country." 

The  Reader  retires. 

Curtain 


First  Year]  Tkc    OclySSClJ  79 

Tableau  X   (Motion  Pictures) 

Celebration  of  Odysseus'  Home-coming 

Passing  over  the  story  of  the  slaughter  of  the  wooers 
and  the  ^punishment  of  the  unfaithful  servants,  the  cele- 
bration of  Odysseus'  home-coming  and  reunion  with  the 
faithful  Penelope  are  suggested  by  tableau  and  proces- 
sion which  should  be  marked  by  a  spirit  of  rejoicing. 
Bright  flowers,  strewn  by  flower-maidens,  cheerful  music, 
and  laughing  faces  characterize  the  scene.  As  the 
curtain  rises,  Athene,  who  has  aided  Telemachus  and 
Odysseus,  stands,  spear  in  right  hand,  shield  in  left,  in  the 
center  of  the  stage;  Penelope  and  Telemachus  on  her  left, 
a  little  in  front,  Odysseus  on  her  right,  the  other  characters 
picturesquely  grouped  in  a  semi-circle  behind  them.  All 
the  characters  are  utilized  in  this  tableau.  At  the  first 
chord  of  music,  Penelope  meets  Odysseus,  center;  they 
march  to  front  of  stage,  turn  to  right;  Athene  joijis  Tele- 
machus; they  march  to  front  and  turn  to  left;  the  other 
characters  fall  in  similarly,  alternating  right  and  left, 
leave  stage,  and  inarch  through  the  auditorium.  The  march 
may  be  elaborated  as  desired. 


80  Dramatization  fFirst  Year 


FEATHERTOP:  A  MORALIZED  LEGEND 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

Feathcrtop,  {Moffuca  from  an  Old  Manse),  offers  a  good  humorous  inci- 
dent for  high  school  production.  Tiic  dramatization  gives  tlie  story  in 
two  scenes,  The  ifakhu/  of  Feathcrtop  and  The  Auakening  of  Feathertop. 
The  adventures  of  Feathertop  while  out  in  the  world,  are  omitted 
because  of  the  difficulty  of  staging.  The  presentation  of  this  selection 
ought  to  be  dramatically  effective.  The  main  changes  of  text  neces- 
sary for  dramatizing  are  the  shortening  of  Mother  Rigby's  speeches  and 
the  introduction  of  appropriate  comments  for  the  Scarecrow.  Dickon 
is  materialized  as  a  Sprite  and  the  Scarecrow  is  sufficiently  humanized 
to  admit  of  impersonation. 

Scene  I 

The  Making  of  Feathertop 

Characters : 
Mother  Righy,  a  Witch. 
The  Scarecrow  (Feathertop.) 
Dickon,  a  Sprite. 

The  scene  represents  the  interior  of  Mother  Rigtxi/s  h  uf.  At 
the  left  is  a  rude  hearth,  on  7vhich  is  a  heap  of  ashes.  At  the 
right,  in  a  corner  concealed  by  a  curtain,  is  the  Scarecroiv.  A 
rough  table  and  chair  complete  the  furnishings.  The  time  is 
early  morning.  As  the  curtain  rises.  Mother  Rigby  is  dis- 
covered seated  at  the  table,  pipe  in  hand.  She  has  just  fin  ished 
a  frugal  breakfast. 

Mother  Rigby.  Dickon!  a  light  for  my  pipe!  [Enter 
Dickon  with  a  lighted  taper.  He  hands  Mother  Rigby 
the  light]  Good!  Thank  ye,  Dickon!  Be  within  call, 
Dickon,  in  case  I  need  ye  again. 

Dickon.     At  your  service.  Mother  Rigby.     [Exit] 


First  Tear]  Featkevtop  81 

Mother  Rigby,  [Rising]  And  now  I  must  look  at  the 
scarecrow  I  made  for  my  corn-patch  last  night.  [She 
hobbles  to  the  corner,  throws  aside  the  curtain,  and  dis- 
closes the  Scarecrow,  a  marvelous  figure,  ivearing  a 
poivdered  ung  surmounted  by  a  three-cornered  hat,  in  which 
is  stuck  the  white  tail-feather  of  a  rooster.  A  plum- 
colored  coat,  scarlet  knee  breeches,  and  white  silk  stockings 
complete  the  costume.  The  boy  representing  this 
Scarecrow  must  be  exceedingly  jerky  and  angular  in 
his  movements.  For  further  details,  see  te.vt\  Surely  it 
looks  as  if  it  were  saying  "Come  and  look  at  me!"  [To 
the  Scarecrow]  And  you  are  well  worth  looking  at,  that 's 
a  fact!  [Returning  to  her  seat]  I've  made  many  a 
puppet  since  I've  been  a  witch;  but  methinks  this  is 
the  finest  of  them  all.  'Tis  almost  too  good  for  a 
scarecrow.  And  by  the  by,  I'll  just  fill  a  fresh  pipe 
of  tobacco,  and  then  take  him  out  to  the  corn-j)atch. 
[While  filling  her  pipe  she  gazes  thoughtfully  at  the 
Scarecrow  and  becomes  visibly  more  pleased  as  she  gazes] 
Dickon!  [rather  sharply]  another  light  for  my  pipe! 
Enter  Dickon  u)ith  taper. 

Dickon.     Here,  Mother  Rigby,  at  your  service. 

lie  hands  the  taper  to  Mother  Rigby,  then  leaves. 
Mother  Rigby  seats  herself  in  the  chair  again,  turris 
totvard  the  Scarecrow,  puffs  aioay  at  her  pipe,  and  con- 
tinues to  gaze  at  the  Scarecrow  as  she  talks. 

Mother  Rigby.  That  j^uppet  yonder  is  too  good  a  piece 
of  work  to  stand  all  summer  in  acorn-patch,  frightening 
away  crows  and  blackbirds.  He's  capable  of  better 
things.  Why,  I've  danced  with  a  worse  one,  when 
partners  happened  to  be  scarce,  at  our  witch  meetings  in 
the  forest!  [Pauses]  What  if  I  shoidd  let  him  take  his 
chance  among  the  other  men  of  stra  v  and  empty  fellows 
who  go  bustling  about   the  world. ■*     [She  takes  two  or 


82  Dramatization  [First  Year 

three  more  whiffs  of  her  pipe  and  smiles  broadly]  He'll 
meet  plenty  of  his  brethren  at  every  street  corner! 
[After  a  pause,  rising  and  going  toward  the  Scarecrow] 
Yes,  I'll  make  a  man  of  my  Scarecrow,  were  it  only  for 
the  joke's  sake!  [She  takes  the  pipe  from  her  oivn  lips 
and  places  it  in  the  Scarecrow's  mouth. — Addressing  the 
Scarecrow]  Puff,  darling,  puff!  Puff  away,  my  fine 
fellow!  Your  life  depends  on  it!  It  is  the  breath  of 
life  to  ye. 

The  figure  gradually  becomes  animated,  raises  its  right 
hand,  seizes  the  pipe,  and  takes  two  or  three  puffs. 

Mother  Rigby.  Well  puffed,  my  pretty  lad!  Puff  on, 
puff  for  thy  life,  I  tell  thee!  [The  figure  continues  to 
puff  away  vigorously]  Why  lurkest  thou  in  the  corner, 
•lazy  one?  Step  forth!  Thou  hast  the  world  before  thee ! 
[The figure  extends  one  arm  toward  Mother  Rigby,  makes  a 
step  forward,  a  kind  of  hitch  and  jerk,  totters  and  almost 
loses  its  balance.  Mother  Rigby  scowls  and  beckons  to  it 
and  speaks  angrily]  Puff  away,  WTetch!  Puff,  puff, 
puff,  thou  thing  of  straw  and  emptiness !  thou  rag  or  two ! 
thou  meal  bag!  thou  pumpkin  head!  thou  nothing! 

The  Scarecroic,  frightened,  puffs  aicay  frantically  as  if 
for  dear  life.  With  each  puff  the  figiire  seems  to  get  more 
and  more  control  of  itself. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Sternly,  shaking  her  fist  at  the  Scarecroic] 
Thou  hast  a  man's  aspect.  Have  also  the  echo  and 
mockery  of  a  voice !     I  bid  thee  speak ! 

The  Scarecrow.  [Gasping,  struggling,  and  finally  mum- 
bling] Mother,  be  not  so  awful  with  me !  I  would  fain 
speak.     But  being  without  wits,  what  can  I  say? 

Mother  Rigby.  [Smiling]  Thou  canst  speak,  darling, 
canst  thou?  And  what  shalt  thou  say,  quotha!  Say, 
indeed!  Art  thou  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  empty 
skull,  and  demandest  of  me  what  thou  shalt  say?     Thou 


First  Tear]  Featliertop  83 

shalt  say  a  thousand  things,  and  sajung  them  a  thousand 
times  over,  thou  shalt  still  have  said  nothing!  Be  not 
afraid,  I  tell  thee!  When  thou  comest  into  the  world 
(whither  I  purpose  sending  thee  forthwith)  thou  shalt 
not  lack  the  wherewithal  to  talk.  Talk!  Why,  thou 
shalt  babble  like  a  mill-stream,  if  thou  wilt.  Thou  hast 
brains  enough  for  that,  I  trow! 

The  Scarecrow.    [Bowing  stiffly]   At  your  service,  mother. 

Mother  Rigby.  And  that  was  well  said,  my  pretty  one. 
Then  thou  spakest  like  thyself,  and  meant  nothing. 
Thou  shalt  have  a  hundred  such  set  phrases,  and  five 
hundred  to  the  boot  of  them.  And  now,  darling,  give 
heed  to  what  I  say! 

The  Scarecrow.  [Placing  hand  on  heart]  Yes,  kind 
mother,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Mother  Rigby.  [Laughing  loudly]  With  all  thy  heart! 
Thou  hast  such  a  pretty  way  of  speaking.  With  all  thy 
heart!  And  thou  didst  j)ut  thy  hand  to  the  left  side 
of  thy  waistcoat  as  if  thou  really  hadst  one! 

The  Scarecrow.     To  be  sure! 

Mother  Rigby.  And  now  go  and  play  thy  part  in  the  big 
world.  That  thou  niayst  hold  up  thy  head  with  the 
best  of  them,  I  endow  thee  with  untold  wealth — a  gold 
mine  in  Eldorado,  ten  thousand  shares  in  a  broken 
bubble,  half  a  million  acres  of  vineyard  at  the  North 
Pole  and  a  castle  in  the  air,  in  Spain,  with  all  the  rents 
accruing  therefrom.  And  here  is  a  copper  for  ready 
cash.     And  here  the  best  of  all! 

She  takes  a  piece  of  brass  from  her  pocket  and  rubs  his 
forehead  with  it. 

The  Scarecrow.     The  best  of  all?     Is  it  possible? 

Mother  Rigby.  Indeed  it  is.  With  that  brass  alone 
thou  canst  pay  thy  way  all  over  the  earth.  And  now, 
pretty  darling,  I  have  done  my  best  for  thee. 


84  Dramatization  [First  Year 

The  Scarecrow.  [Caressing  Mother  Rigby]  Indeed  thou 
hast,  pretty  mother,  and  I  thank  thee  a  thousand 
times ! 

Mother  Ricjby.  How  like  a  man  that  sounds!  And  now 
go  forth!  I  send  thee  direct  to  the  worshipful  Justice 
Gookin.  The  worshipful  Justice  knows  Mother  Rigby, 
[laughing]  and  Mother  Rigby  knoAvs  him.  Whisper  but 
this  word  in  his  ear,  [whispering  to  him]  and  he  will  be 
like  putty  in  thy  hands. 

The  Scarecrow.     Indeed?     I  can  scarce  believe  it. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Aside]  He  is  getting  more  and  more 
human  every  second.  He  will  soon  be  a  man.  [To  hiin] 
And  the  worshipful  Master  Gookin  hath  a  comely 
maiden  to  his  daughter. 

The  Scarecrow.  [Much  interested]  So?  Pray  tell  me 
about  her. 

Mother  Rigby.  Well,  hark  ye,  my  pet!  Thou  hast  a 
fair  outside,  and  a  pretty  wit  enough  of  thy  own. 

The  Scarecrow.  [With  protesting  modesty]  Oh,  Mother 
Rigby! 

Mother  Rigby.  Yea,  a  prettj'  wit  enough!  Thou  wilt 
think  better  of  it  when  thou  hast  seen  more  of  other 
people's  wits. 

The  Scarecrow.     Really? 

Mother  Rigby.  Never  doubt  it!  Now  thou  art  the  very 
man  to  win  a  girl's  heart. 

The  Scarecrow  straightens  up  with  pride. 

The  Scarecrow.     Indeed?     Oh!     Ah!     Hem! 

Mother  Rigby.  Put  a  bold  face  on  the  matter,  sigh, 
smile,  flourish  thy  hat,  thrust  forth  thy  leg  like  a  dancing 
master,  put  thy  right  hand  to  the  left  side  of  thy  waist- 
coat, and  pretty  Polly  Gookin  is  thine  own ! 

As  she  speaks  the  Scarecrow  perforins  the  various  acts 
as    directed,    smiles,    sighs,    etc.     He    repeats    these    acts 


First  Year]  FeotheHop  85 

several  times.  He  has  been  puffing  away  at  his  pipe 
intermittently  and  seems  now  to  take  great  enjoyment  in  it. 
The  more  vigorously  he  smokes  the  more  human  he  becomes 
in  his  motions. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Approaching  him  and  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  unwilling  hands.  As  she  takes  it  away  a  change 
comes  over  the  Scarecrow;  he  suddenly  stiffens  in  every 
joint  and  loses  much  of  his  human  semblance]  I  see,  my 
dear,  that  your  pipe  is  getting  low.  Let  me  fill  it  for  thee. 
[She  takes  tobacco  from  her  pouch  and  fills  it]  Dickon ! 
another  light  for  this  pipe. 

Enter  Dickon  icith  lighted  taper. 

Dickon.     And  it  is  here,  my  mistress! 

He  gives  the  taper  to  Mother  Rigby  and  vanishes. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Lighting  the  pipe]  Here,  mine  own 
heart's  darling.  [The  Scarecrow  grasps  the  pipe  eagerly, 
pids  it  to  his  mouth,  puffs  vigorously ,  and  gradually 
becomes  less  rigid]  Now,  whatever  happens,  thou  must 
stick  to  thy  pipe.  Thy  life  is  in  it.  Stick  to  thy  pipe, 
I  say !     Smoke,  puff,  blow  thy  cloud. 

The  Scarecrow.  That  will  I,  Mother  Rigby.  Never  fear. 
[Puffing  away] 

Mother  Rigby.  And  tell  the  people  if  any  question  be 
made,  that  it  is  for  thy  health,  and  that  so  the  physician 
orders  thee  to  do. 

The  Scarecrow.  [Slyly]  Ah,  I  see!  I'll  follow  thy  bidding, 
pretty  mother. 

Mother  Rigby.  And,  sweet  one,  when  thou  shalt  find  thy 
pipe  getting  low,  go  apart  into  some  corner,  and  cry 
sharply,  "Dickon,  a  fresh  pipe  of  tobacco!"  and  have  it 
into  thy  i)retty  mouth  as  speedily  as  may  be.  Else, 
instead  of  a  gallant  gentleman  in  a  gold-laced  coat,  thou 
wilt  be  but  a  jumble  of  sticks  and  tattered  clothes,  and 
a  bag  of  straw  . 


86  Dramatization  [First  Year 

The  Scarecrow.  [Startled]  Ah!  Really?  Let  me  try — 
Die — Dickon — Dickon.  [Trying  to  imitate  Mother  Rigby's 
tone]    Dickon,  a  fresh  pipe  of  tobacco!   Just  so,  just  so. 

Mother  Rigby.  Well  clone,  my  pretty.  And  now  depart, 
and  good  luck  go  with  thee! 

The  Scarecrow.  [Going  up  to  her  and  talcing  her  hand] 
Never  fear,  mother!  I  will  thrive,  if  an  honest  man  and 
a  gentleman  may! 

Mother  Rigby.  [Convulsed  with  laughter]  Oh,  thou  wilt 
be  the  death  of  me!  That  was  well  said.  If  an  honest 
man  and  a  gentleman  may!  Thou  playest  thy  part  to 
perfection.  Get  along  with  thee  for  a  smart  fellow! 
Did  /  not  make  thee?  [Looking  at  him  with  pride] 
And  I  defy  any  witch  in  New  England  to  make  such 
another!     Here,  take  my  staff  along  with  thee! 

She  gives  him  her  staff  which  suddenly  becomes  a  gold- 
headed  cane.  This  transformation  can  be  easily  made  by 
Mother  Rigby's  slipping  uruioticed  a  cap  made  of  gilt 
paper  on  the  e7id  of  the  stick. 

The  Scarecrow.  [Taldng  the  gold-headed  cane  and  looking 
at  it  curiously]     Upon  my  word ! 

Mother  Rigby.  That  gold  head  has  as  much  sense  in  it 
as  thine  own. 

The  Scarecrow.     Really? 

Mother  Rigby.  And  it  will  guide  thee  straight  to  wor- 
shipful Master  Gookin's  door. 

The  Scarecrow.     Is  it  possible? 

Mother  Rigby,  [Laughing. — Aside]  How  like  a  wit  he 
speaks!  [To  hirn]  It  is.  Now  get  thee  gone, my  pretty  pet, 
my  darling,  my  precious  one,  my  treasure.  [Caressing  him] 
And  if  any  ask  thy  name,  it  is  Feathertop.  For  thou  hast  a 
feather  in  thy  hat,  and  I  have  thrust  a  handful  of  feathers 
into  the  hollow  of  thy  head,  and  thy  wig  too  is  of  the 
fashion  they  call  Feathertop, — so  be  thy  name  Feathertop! 


First  Year] 


Feathertop  87 


The  Scarecrow.  [Bowing  low  and  kissing  Mother  Rigby's 
hand]  So  be  it.  Hereafter  I  shall  know  myself  as 
Feathertop,  and  whithersoever  I  go,  men  shall  know  me 
as  Lord  Feathertop.  Adieu,  sweet  mother,  I  go  to  seek 
my  fortune  at  the  portals  of  Justice  Gookin. 

lie  strides  manfully  out  of  the  door,  leaning  Mother 
Rigby  shaking  her  sides  with  laughter. 
Curtain 

Scene  II 

The  Awakening  of  Feathertop 

The  scene  and  the  characters  are  the  same.  The  time  is 
evening.  A  candle  burns  on  the  table,  beside  rrhich  sits  Mother 
Rigby,  smoking  her  pipe.  As  the  curtain  rises,  a  noise  like 
the  clatter  of  sticks  is  heard  outside. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Taking  the  pipe  from  her  mouth,  and 
shaking  out  the  ashes]  Ha!  What  step  is  that?  Whose 
skeleton  is  out  of  the  grave  now,  I  wonder? 

Feathertop  bursts  headlong  into  the  cottage,  his  pipe  still 
alight,  his  aspect  still  human.  He  approaches  Mother 
Rigby  and  stands  despondently  before  her. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Excitedly]  \Vhat  has  gone  wrong?  Did 
yonder  sniffling  hypocrite  thrust  my  darling  from  his 
door?  The  villain!  I'll  set  twenty  fiends  to  torment 
him  till  he  offer  thee  his  daughter  on  his  bended  knees! 

Feathertop.     [Despairingly]    No,  mother,  it  was  not  that. 

Mother  Rigby.  [Vindictively]  Did  the  girl  scorn  my 
precious  one?  I'll  cover  her  face  with  pimples!  Her 
nose  shall  be  as  red  as  the  light  in  thy  pipe!  Her  front 
teeth  shall  drop  out!  In  a  week  hence  she  shall  not  be 
worth  thy  having! 

Feathertop.  [Despondently]  Let  her  alone,  mother. — The 
girl    was    half    won;    and    nielhinks    a    kiss    from    her 


88  Dramatization  [First  Year 

sweet  lips  might  liave  made  me  altogether  human.  But — 
[he  paufiefi]  there  was  a  full  length  mirror  in  the  room. 
[He  pauses  again]  It  showed  me  myself,  mother,  and  no 
illusion.  [I'lien,  excitedly,  in  atone  of  utter  self -contempt] 
I've  seen  myself,  mother!  I've  seen  myself  for  the 
wretched,  ragged,  empty  thing  I  am!  I'll  exist  no 
longer ! 

He  flings  his  pipe  angrily  against  the  chimney  and  sinks 
upon  the  floor,  a  formless  heap. 
Mother  Rigby.  [Rising  and  standing  over  him.  She 
speaks  ruefully]  Poor  fellow!  My  poor,  dear,  pretty 
Feathertop!  There  are  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
coxcombs  and  charlatans  in  the  world,  made  up  of  just 
such  a  jumble  of  worn  out,  forgotten,  and  good-for- 
nothing  trash  as  he  was!  Yet  they  live  in  fair  repute, 
and  never  see  themselves  for  what" they  are.  And  why 
should  my  poor  puppet  be  the  only  one  to  know  himself 
and  perish  for  it?  [She  slowly  fills  her  pipe  and  stands 
irresolute.  Then  she  stoops  and  is  about  to  thrust  it  into 
Feathertop' s  mouth,  hut  she  hesitates,  and  finally  draics  it 
slowly  away]  Poor  Feathertop!  [With  much  feeling] 
I  could  easily  give  him  another  chance  and  send  him 
forth  again  tomorrow.  But  no;  his  feelings  are  too 
tender,  his  sensibilities  too  deep.  He  seems  to  have  too 
much  heart  to  bustle  for  his  own  advantage  in  such  an 
empty  and  heartless  world.  [Pauses;  then  more  cheer- 
fully] Well !  well !  I  '11  make  a  scarecrow  of  him,  after 
all.  'Tis  an  innocent  and  useful  vocation,  and  will  suit 
my  darling  well;  and,  if  each  of  his  human  brethren  had 
as  fit  a  one,  'twould  be  the  better  for  mankind;  and  as 
for  this  pipe  of  tobacco,  I  need  it  more  than  he.  [She 
puts  the  pipe  between  her  lips  and  pufl's]  Dickon! 
Another  light  for  my  pipe! 

As  Dickon  enters  with  a  lighted  taper,  the  curtain  drops. 


SECOND  YEAR 


TEE  ILIAD 

Translation  by  Lang,  Leaf,  and  Myers 

PREFATORY    NOTE 

The  scene  chosen  from  Homer's  Iliad,  Book  I  is  the  Assembly  of  the 
Argive  chiefs  to  consider  the  means  for  appeasing  the  wrath  of  Apollo, 
in  which  the  great  dramatic  incident  is  the  quarrel  of  Agamemnon  and 
Achilles.      The  appeal  of  Chryses  serves  as  Prologue. 

The  historical  details  necessary  to  a  presentation  of  the  Greek 
Assembly  may  he  gleaned  from  the  several  accounts  of  Assemblies  in  the 
Iliad  and  the  Odyssey.  The  Homeric  narratives  show  that  the  proce- 
dure was  extremely  informal.  The  Assembly  was  convened  without 
ceremony,  and  the  rising  of  the  presiding  chief  was  the  signal  for  the 
dissolution.  The  peace  Assembly,  of  which  we  find  an  illustration  in 
the  Odyssey,  Rook  II,  does  not  differ  essentially  from  the  war  Assembly 
of  the  Iliad,  except  that  the  latter  seems  to  be  a  degree  less  formal. 
Therefore  in  making  suggestions  for  the  "business"  of  the  scenes 
selected,  the  two  have  been  used  interchangeably.  The  one  formality 
in  the  procedure  noted  in  the  Odyssey,  Book  II,  has  been  utilized  for 
dramatic  effect  in  the  scene  here  given:  And  he  stood  in  mid  Assembly; 
and  Ike  Herald  Peisenor placed  the  staff  in  his  hands. 

Scene  I 

The  Appeal  of  Chryses 

Characters: 
Agamemnon.  Calchas. 

Achilles.  Nestor,  and  Other  Greek  Chiefs. 

Heralds.  Chryses,  Priest  of  Apollo. 

Apollo,  as  a  Shepherd. 
The  scene  presents  an  Assembly  of  chiefs  held  on  the  shore 
pear    the    Greek    ships.     On    one    side,    rudely    constructed 
benches  are  arranged  in  a  semi-circle  so  that  the  main  charac- 
ters may  face  the  audience.     Agamemnon  occupies  a  rough- 


8  Dramatization  r  second  Year 

hewn  seat  in  front  of  the  benches,  so  placed  that  the  audience, 
may  watch  his  expression  throughout  the  scene,  and  far  enough 
away  from  the  benches  to  allow  space  for  Chryses  between  him 
and  the  assembled  chiefs.  On  either  side  of  Agamemnon  is 
a  Herald  seated  on  the  ground,  leaning  against  the  base  of  the 
king's  seat.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Chryses  appears  at  the  rear- 
center  of  the  stage,  bearing  a  golden  scepter  with  the  fillets  of 
Apollo,  the  symbols  of  his  priesthood. 

Chryses.  [Addressing  the  Assembly]  Ye  sons  of  Atreus 
and  all  ye  well-greaved  Achaeans,  now  may  the  gods 
that  dwell  in  the  mansions  of  Olympus  grant  you  to  lay 
waste  the  city  of  Priam,  and  to  fare  happily  homeward; 
only  set  ye  my  dear  child  free,  and  accept  the  ransom 
in  reverence  to  the  son  of  Zeus,  far-darting  Apollo. 

One  of  the  Chiefs.  [Amid  applause  of  majority]  Ye 
Argive  warriors,  heed  a  father's  prayer.  Revere  the 
priest,  and  take  the  liberal  gifts  he  offers.  Give  him 
back  his  well-loved  child ! 

Agamemnon.  [Scornfully,  with  threatening  air]  Let  me  not 
find  thee,  old  man,  amid  the  hollow  ships,  whether 
tarrying  now,  or  returning  again  hereafter,  lest  the  staff 
and  fillet  of  the  god  avail  thee  naught.  And  her  will  I 
not  set  free;  nay,  ere  that  shall  old  age  come  on  her  in 
our  house  in  Argos,  far  from  her  native  land,  where  she 
shall  ply  the  loom.  But  depart,  provoke  me  not,  that 
thou  mayest  the  rather  go  in  peace. 

Agamemnon,  rising,  dismisses  the  Assembly.  The  old 
priest  loalks  slowly  toward  the  left  of  the  stage;  the  council 
silently  dissolves,  the  warriors  going  out  to  the  rigid.  When 
the  old  man  reaches  the  exit,  he  suddenly  turns,  watches  the 
departing  chiefs  a  moment,  then  offers  his  prayer  to  Apollo. 

Chryses.  Hear  me,  god  of  the  silver  bow,  that  standest 
over  Chrysa  and  holy   Cilia  and   rulest  Tenedos  with 


Second  Year] 


The  Iliad  9 


might,  O  Smintheus!  if  ever  I  built  a  temple  gracious  in 
thine  eyes,  or  if  ever  I  burnt  to  thee  fat  flesh  of  thighs  of 
bulls  or  goats,  fulfill  thou  this  my  desire;  let  the  Danaiins 
pay  by  thine  arrows  for  my  tears. 

Apollo   appears   to   Chryses  in   the  form   of  a   Greek 
shepherd,  icith  silver  how  and  quiver. 
Apollo.     Priest  of  Apollo,  the  god  of  the  silver  bow  hath 
heard   thy   prayer,   and,    wroth   at   heart,    because   the 
bearer  of  the  fillet  hath  been  dishonored,  granteth  thee 
thy  desire. 
Apollo  disappears.     Chryses  stands  a  moment  amazed. 
Chryses.     [In  attitude  of  prayer]     Mayest  thou,  O  Far- 
darting  Apollo,  let  fly  thy  arrows  upon  the  Achaean  host, 
and  send  a  sore  plague  upon  them,  that  the  folk  perish, 
because  Atrides  hath  done  dishonor  to  thy  priest. 
Curtain 

Scene  II 

The  Quarrel 

Characters: 

Achilles.  Nestor,  and  Other- 
Agamemnon.  Greek  Chiefs. 

Calchas.  Athene. 

Patroclus.  Thetis. 

Heralds.  Briscis. 

Talthybius.  Eurybates. 

The  setting  is  the  same.     The  Greek  chiefs  are  assembled 
in  council.     Achilles  rises  in  their  midst. 

Achilles.  Son  of  Atreus,  now  deem  I  that  we  shall  return 
wandering  home  again — if  verily  we  might  escape 
death — if  war  at  once  and  pestilence  must  indeed  ravage 
the  Achaeans.     But  come,  let  us  now  inquire  of  some 


10  Dravuttization 


[Second  Year 


soothsayer  or  priest,  yea,  or  ;m  iiiteri)reter  of  dreams — 
seeing  that  a  dream  too  is  of  Zens — who  shall  say  wliere- 
fore  Phoebus  Apollo  is  so  wroth,  whether  he  l)lanie  us 
by  reason  of  vow  or  hecatomb;  if  perchance  he  would 
accej)t  the  savor  of  lambs  or  unblemished  goats,  and  so 
would  take  away  the  pestilence  from  us. 

'Achilles  takes  his  seat.  Agamemnon  speaks  to  Eury- 
bates,  the  Herald,  who  goes  to  Calchas,  ihe  seer,  and  deliiers 
to  him  the  scepter, the  signal  for  him  to  address  the  Assembly. 

Calchas.  [Rising  and  addressing  Agamemnon]  Atrides, 
king  of  men,  thou  biddest  me  tell  the  wrath  of  Apollo, 
the  king  that  smiteth  afar.  Therefore  will  I  speak. 
[Turning  to  Achilles]  But  do  thou,  O  Peleus'  son,  make 
covenant  with  me,  and  swear  that  verily  with  all  thy 
heart  thou  wilt  aid  me  both  by  word  and  deed.  For 
of  a  truth  I  deem  that  I  shall  provoke  one  that  ruleth 
all  the  Argives  with  might,  and  whcm  the  Achaeans 
obey.  For  a  king  is  more  of  might  when  he  is  wroth 
with  a  meaner  man;  even  though  for  one  day  he  swallow 
his  anger,  yet  doth  he  still  keep  his  displeasure  thereafter 
in  his  breast  till  he  accomplish  it.  Consider  thou,  then, 
if  thou  wilt  hold  me  safe. 

Achilles.  [Rising]  Yea,  be  of  good  courage,  speak 
whatever  soothsaying  thou  knowest;  for  by  Apollo  dear 
to  Zeus,  him  by  whose  worship  thou,  O  Calchas,  declarest 
thy  soothsaying  to  the  Danaans,  no  man  while  I  live  and 
behold  light  on  earth  shall  lay  violent  hands  upon  thee 
amid  the  hollow  ships;  no  man  of  all  the  Danaans,  not 
even  if  thou  mean  Agamemnon  that  now  avowcth 
him  to  be  greatest  far  of  the  Achaeans. 

Some  of  the  warriors  applaud  Achilles'  icords.     One  of 
them  rises  and  speaks. 

A  Greek  Chief.  Speak  thou  in  safety,  as  Achilles  bids, 
0  Calchas,  Son  of  Thestor  and  the  chief  of  augurs,  one 


Second  Year] 


The  Iliad  11 


lo  whom  are  known  things  past  and  things  to  come: 
who,  through  the  art  of  divination,  which  Apollo  gave, 
once  guided  Iliumward  the  ships  of  Greece! 
Several  in  Chorus.  Speak,  son  of  Thestor!  Speak! — 
Calchas.  O  Argive  chiefs,  Atrides  and  the  rest,  since 
it  is  the  will  of  all,  I  will  unfold  the  cause  of  Sminth- 
eus'  rage  against  the  Grecian  camp.  Neither  by  reason 
of  a  vow  is  he  displeased,  nor  for  any  hecatomb,  but  for 
his  priest's  sake  to  whom  Agamemnon  did  despite,  and 
set  not  his  daughter  free  and  accepted  not  the  ransom; 
therefore  hath  the  Far-darter  brought  woes  upon  us, 
yea,  and  will  bring.  Nor  will  he  ever  remove  the 
loathly  pestilence  from  the  Danaans  till  we  have  given 
the  bright-eyed  damsel  to  her  father,  unbought,  unran- 
somed,  and  carried  a  holy  hecatomb  to  Chrysa;  then 
might  we  propitiate  him  to  our  prayer. 

Calchas  takes  his  seat.  Agamemnon  rises  wrathJiiUy, 
eyes  sparkling  icith  rage;  he  fixes  a  menacing  look  on 
Calchas. 
Agamemnon.  Thou  seer  of  evil,  never  yet  hast  thou  told 
me  the  thing  that  is  pleasant.  Evil  is  ever  the  joy  of  thy 
heart  to  prophesy,  but  never  yet  didst  thou  tell  any  good 
matter  nor  bring  it  to  pass.  And  now  with  soothsaying 
thou  makest  harangue  among  the  Danaans,  how  that 
the  Far-darter  bringeth  woes  upon  them  because,  for- 
sooth, I  would  not  take  the  goodly  ransom  of  the  damsel 
Chryseis,  seeing  I  am  the  rather  fain  to  keep  her  ownself 
within  mine  house.  Yet  for  all  this  will  I  give  her  back, 
if  that  is  better;  rather  would  I  see  my  folk  whole  than 
perishing.  [Applause]  Only  make  ye  me  ready  a  prize 
of  honor  forthwith,  lest  I  alone  of  all  the  Argives,  be 
disprizcd  which  thing  beseemeth  not;  for  ye  all  behold 
how  my  prize  is  departing  from  me. 

The  expression  of  faces  in  the  Assembly  changes  fron\ 


12  Dramatization  .  [second  Year 

relief  to  disappointment.  As  he  sits  down,  he  looks  sig- 
nificantly at  Achilles. 

Achilles.  [Rising  angrily]  Most  noble  son  of  Atreus,  of 
all  men  most  covetous,  how  shall  the  great-hearted 
Achaeans  give  thee  a  meed  of  honor?  We  know  naught 
of  any  wealth  of  common  store,  but  what  spoil  soe'er  we 
took  from  captured  cities  hath  been  apportioned,  and 
it  beseemeth  not  to  beg  all  this  back  from  the  folk. 
Nay,  yield  thou  the  damsel  to  the  god,  and  we  Achaeans 
will  pay  thee  back  threefold  and  fourfold,  if  ever  Zeus 
grant  us  to  sack  some  well-walled  town  of  Troy-land. 

Agamemnon.  [Scornfully]  Not  in  this  wise,  strong  as 
thou  art,  O  godlike  Achilles,  beguile  thou  me  by  craft; 
thou  shalt  not  outwit  me  nor  persuade  me.  Dost  thou 
wish,  that  thou  mayest  keep  thy  meed  of  honor,  for  me 
to  sit  idle  in  bereavement,  and  biddest  me  give  her  back? 
Nay,  if  the  great-hearted  Achaeans  will  give  me  a  meed 
suited  to  my  mind,  that  the  recompense  be  equal — 
but  if  they  give  it  not,  then  I,  myself  will  go  and  take  a 
meed  of  honor,  thine  be  it,  or  Ajax's,  or  Odysseus',  that  I 
will  take  unto  me;  wroth  shall  he  be  to  whomsoever  I 
come.     But  for  this  we  will  take  counsel  hereafter. 

Achilles.  [Wrathfully]  Ah  me,  thou  clothed  in  shame- 
lessness,  thou  of  crafty  mind,  how  shall  any  Achaean 
hearken  to  thy  bidding  with  all  his  heart,  be  it  to  go 
a  journey  or  to  fight  the  foe  amain?  Not  by  reason  of 
the  Trojan  spearmen  came  I  hither  to  fight,  for  they 
have  not  wronged  me;  never  did  they  harry  mine  oxen 
nor  my  horses,  nor  ever  waste  my  harvest  in  deep-soiled 
Phthia,  the  nurse  of  men ;  seeing  there  lieth  between  us 
long  space  of  shadowing  mountains  and  sounding  sea; 
but  thee,  thou  shameless  one,  followed  we  hither  to  make 
thee  glad,  by  earning  recompense  at  the  Trojans'  hands 
for  Menelaus  and  for  thee,   thou    dog-face!      All    this 


Second  Year] 


The  Iliad  13 


thou  reckonest  not  nor  takest  tliought  thereof;  and  now 
thou  threatenest  thyself  to  take  my  meed  of  honor, 
wherefore  I  travailed  much,  and  the  sons  of  the  Achaeans 
gave  it  me.  Never  win  I  meed  like  unto  thine,  when 
the  Achaeans  sack  any  populous  citadel  of  Trojan  men; 
my  hands  bear  the  brunt  of  furious  war,  but  when  the 
apportioning  cometh,  then  is  thy  meed  far  ampler,  and 
I  betake  me  to  the  ships  with  some  small  thing,  yet  mine 
own,  when  I  have  fought  to  weariness.  Now  will  I 
depart  to  Phthia,  seeing  it  is  far  better  to  return  home 
on  my  beaked  ships;  nor  am  I  minded  here  in  dishonor 
to  draw  thee  thy  fill  of  riches  and  wealth. 

Achilles  strides  wrathjully  aivaij  from  Agameimwn,  but 
pauses  and  turns  at  Agamemnon  s  first  ivords. 
Agamemnon.  Yea,  flee,  if  thy  soul  be  set  thereon.  It  is 
not  I  that  beseech  thee  to  tarry  for  my  sake;  I  have 
others  by  my  side  that  shall  do  me  honor,  and  above  all, 
Zeus,  lord  of  counsel.  Most  hateful  art  thou  to  me  of 
all  kings,  fosterlings  of  Zeus;  thou  ever  lovest  strife  and 
wars  and  fightings.  Though  thou  be  very  strong,  yet 
that  I  ween,  is  a  gift  to  thee  of  God.  Go  home  with  thy 
ships  and  company  and  lord  it  among  thy  Myrmidons; 
I  reck  not  aught  of  thee  nor  care  I  for  thine  indignation; 
and  this  shall  be  my  threat  to  thee:  seeing  Phoebus 
Apollo  bereaveth  me  of  Chryseis,  her  with  my  ship 
and  my  company  will  I  send  back;  and  mine  own  self 
will  I  go  to  thy  hut  and  take  Briseis  of  the  fair  cheeks, 
even  that  thy  meed  of  honor,  that  thou  mayest  well 
know  how  far  greater  I  am  than  thou,  and  so  shall 
another  hereafter  abhor  to  match  his  words  with  mine 
and  rival  me  to  my  face. 

He  turns  abruptly  to  the  Assembly  to  give  directions  for 
the  return  of  Chryseis,  while  Achilles  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stage,  stands  debating,  with  growing  anger,  hand  on 


14  Dramatization  [second  Year 

sword,  irhefher  or  not  to  'pnsh  hack  the  rest  and  smite 
Agamemnon.  Dnring  this  lime,  Agamemnon  speaks  to 
the  Assembly. 

Come,  now  let  lis  launch  a  black  ship  on  the  great  sea, 
and  gather  picked  oarsmen,  and  set  therein  a  hecatomb, 
and  embark  Chryseis  of  the  fair  cheeks,  herself,  and  let 
one  of  our  counsellors  ])e  captain,  [turning  to  each,  as 
he  mentions  their  names]  Ajax  or  Idomeneus  or  goodly 
Odysseus,  or  thou,  Pelides  [to  Achilles]  most  redoubtable 
of  men,  to  do  sacrifice  for  us  and  propitiate  the  Far-darter. 
Achilles  clutches  his  srvord  more  firmly.  Agamemnon 
scornfully  turns  his  back  on  Achilles,  and  continues  talking 
with  the  Greek  chiefs,  who  have  left  their  seats  and  gathered 
about  Agamemnon.  Meanwhile  Athene  .suddenly  appears 
from  an  entrance  near  Achilles,  coming  up  from  behind, 
just  as  Achilles  starts  forward  to  attack  Agamemnon.  She 
stays  his  hand  as  he  draws  his  sivord.  Achilles  turns  in 
wonder. 

Achilles.  [In  aived  to7ies]  ^Shy  now  art  thou  come 
hither,  thou  daughter  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus?  Is  it  to 
behold  the  insolence  of  Agamemnon,  son  of  Atreus? 
Yea,  I  will  tell  thee  that  I  deem  shall  even  be  brought 
to  pass:  by  his  own  haughtinesses  shall  he  soon  lose 
his  life. 

He   again  starts  toicard  Agamemnon.     Athene  gently 
draws  him  back. 

Athene.  I  came  from  heaven  to  stay  thine  anger,  if 
perchance  thou  wilt  hearken  to  me,  being  sent  forth  of 
the  white-armed  goddess  Juno  that  loveth  you  twain 
alike  and  careth  for  you.  Go  to  now,  cease  from  strife, 
and  let  not  thine  hand  draw  the  sword;  yet  with  words 
indeed  revile  him,  even  as  it  shall  come  to  pass.  For 
thus  will  I  say  to  thee,  and  so  it  shall  be  fulfilled;  here- 
after shall  goodly  gifts  come  to  thee,  yea  in  threefold 


Second  Year] 


The  Iliad  15 


measure,  by  reason  of  this  despite;  hold  thou  thine  hand, 
and  hearken  to  us. 
Achilles.  Goddess,  needs  must  a  man  observe  the  saying 
of  you  twain,  even  though  lie  be  very  wroth  at  heart; 
for  so  is  the  better  way.  ^Vhosoc^•er  obeyeth  the  gods, 
to  him  they  gladly  hearken. 

He  thrusts  his  sivord  hack  into  its  sheath  as  Athene  dis- 
appears behind  the  scene.  Achilles  stands  looking  toward  the 
entrance  where  Athene  disappeared,  repeating  meditatively, 
"Whosoever  obeyeth  the  gods,  to  him  they  gladly  hearken.'^ 
Then  with  a  sudden  return  of  his  wrath,  he  turns  to 
Agamemnon,  giving  vent  to  his  rage.  They  meet  in  the 
center-front  of  the  stage.  Agamemnon  turns  at  Achilles' 
first  xrords.  Patroclus  enters  while  Achilles  is  speaking, 
{cne,  ''Far  better  booteth  if.'")  and  stands  apart,  intent 
on  Achilles'  words. 

Thou  heavy  with  wine,  thou  with  face  of  dog  and  heart 
of  deer,  never  didst  thou  take  courage  to  arm  for  battle 
among  thy  folk  or  to  lay  ambush  with  the  princes  of  the 
Achaeans;  that  to  thee  were  even  as  death.  Far  better 
booteth  it,  forsooth,  to  seize  for  thyself  the  meed  of 
honor  of  every  man  through  the  wide  host  of  the  Achaeans 
that  speaketh  contrary  to  thee.  Folk-devouring  king! 
seeing  thou  rulest  men  of  naught;  else  were  this  despite, 
thou  son  of  Atreus,  thy  last.  But  I  will  speak  my  word 
to  thee,  and  swear  a  mighty  oath  therewith:  verily — 
by  this  staff  that  shall  no  more  put  forth  leaf  or  twig, 
seeing  it  hath  for  ever  left  its  trunk  among  the  hills, 
neither  shall  it  grow  green  again,  because  the  axe  hath 
stripped  it  of  leaves  and  bark;  and  now  the  sons  of  the 
Achaeans  that  exercise  judgment  bear  it  in  their  hands, 
even  thej^  that  by  Zeus'  commands  watch  over  the 
traditions — so  shall  this  be  a  mighty  oath  in  thine  eyes — 
verily  shall  longing  for  Achilles  cpme  hereafter  upon  the 


16  Dramatization  [second  Year 

sons  of  the  Acliaeans,  one  and  all;  and  then  wilt  thou  in 
no  wise  avail  to  save  them,  for  all  tiiy  grief,  when 
multitudes  fall  dying  before  man-slaying  Hector.  Then 
shalt  thou  tear  thy  heart  within  thee  for  anger  that 
thou  didst  in  no  wise  honor  the  best  of  the  Achaeans. 

Achilles  jlings  his  gold- studded  wand  to  the  ground  at 
the  feet  of  Agamemnon  arid  takes  his  seat  in  the  Assembly 
once  more.  He  is  joined  by  Patruclus  icho  sits  by  him,  and 
throios  his  arm  about  his  shoulder.  In  the  meantime 
Agamemnon  starts  toward  Achilles,  fierce  with  rage,  hut 
is  restrained  by  the  aged  Nestor,  who  rises  and  motions 
him.  hack  into  his  seat. 
Nestor.  Alas,  of  a  truth  sore  lamentation  comcth  upon 
the  land  of  Achaia.  Verily  Priam  would  be  glad  and 
Priam's  sons,  and  all  the  Trojans  would  have  great  joy 
of  heart,  w^ere  they  to  hear  all  this  tale  of  strife  between 
you  twain  that  are  chief  est  of  the  Danaans  in  counsel 
and  chief  est  in  battle.  Nay,  hearken  to  me;  ye  are 
younger  both  than  I.  Of  old  days  held  I  converse  with 
better  men  even  than  you,  and  never  did  they  make 
light  of  me.  Yea,  I  never  beheld  such  warriors,  nor  shall 
behold.  Mightiest  of  growth  were  they  of  all  men  upon 
the  earth;  mightiest  were  they  and  with  the  mightiest 
fought  they;  and  with  them  could  none  of  men  that  are 
now  on  earth  do  battle.  And  they  laid  to  heart  my 
counsels,  and  hearkened  to  my  voice.  Even  so,  hearken 
ye  also,  for  better  is  it  to  hearken.  [To  Agamemnon] 
Neither  do  thou,  though  thou  art  very  great,  seize  from 
him  his  damsel,  but  leave  her  as  she  was  given  at  the  first 
by  the  sons  of  the  Achaeans  to  be  a  meed  of  honor; 
[turning  to  Achilles]  nor  do  thou,  son  of  Peleus,  think  to 
strive  with  a  king,  might  against  might;  seeing  that  no 
common  honor  pertaineth  to  a  sceptred  king  to  whom 
Zeus  apportioneth  glory.     Though  thou  be  strong,  and  a 


Second  Year]  The    IHod  •  17 

goddess  mother  bare  thee,  yet  his  is  the  greater  place, 
for  he  is  king  over  more.  [To  Agamemnon]  And  thou, 
Atrides,  abate  thy  fury;  nay,  it  is  even  I  that  beseech 
thee  to  let  go  thine  anger  with  Achilles,  who  is  made 
unto  all  the  Achaeans  a  mighty  Inilwark  of  evil  war. 

Agamemnon.  Yea  verily,  old  man,  all  this  thou  sayest 
is  according  unto  right.  But  thi.^  fellow  would  be  above 
all  others,  he  would  be  lord  of  all  and  king  among  all  and 
captain  to  all;  wherein  I  deem  none  will  hearken  to  him. 
Though  the  immortal  gods  made  him  a  spearman,  do 
they  therefore  put  revilings  in  his  mouth  for  him  to 
utter? 

Achilles.  [Who  has  shown  great  impatience,  noic  starts  for- 
ward. Nestor  lays  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  hut  Achilles 
gently  pushes  him  aside,  even  in  his  wrath  against  Aga- 
memnon showing  respect  for  the  aged  Xestor. —  To  Xestor] 
Nay,  stay  me  not !  for  I  should  be  called  coward  and  man 
of  naught,  if  I  yield  to  him  in  every  matter,  howsoe'er 
he  bid.  [To  Agamemnon]  To  others  give  now  thine 
orders,  not  to  me  play  master;  for  thee  I  deem  that 
I  shall  no  more  obey.  This,  moreover,  will  I  say  to  thee, 
and  do  thou  lay  it  to  thy  heart.  Know  that  not  by 
violence  will  I  strive  for  the  damsel's  sake,  neither  with 
thee  nor  any  other;  ye  gave  and  ye  have  taken  away. 
But  of  all  else  that  is  mine,  beside  my  fleet  black  ship, 
thereof  shalt  thou  not  take  anything  or  bear  it  away 
against  my  will.  Yea,  go  to  noAv,  make  trial  that  all 
these  may  see;  forthwith  thy  dark  blood  shall  gush 
about  my  spear. 

Achilles  turns  to  go  and  is  joined  by  Patroclus.  Aga- 
memnon rises,  dismissing  the  Assembly  n-ith  a  motion  of 
his  scepter,  but  beckons  to  his  tiro  heralds,  Talthybius  and 
Euryhates,  who  remain,  as  the  other  chiefs  go  out  in  different 
directions. 


18        •  Dramatization  r  second  Year 

Agamemnon.  [To  Heralds]  Go  ye  to  the  tent  of  Achilles, 
Peleus'  son,  and  take  JJri.seis  of  the  fair  elieeks  by  the 
hand  and  lead  her  hither;  and  if  he  give  her  not,  then  will 
I  myself  go,  and  more  with  me,  and  seize  her;  and  that 
will  be  yet  more  grievous  for  him. 

As  Agamemnon  sits  in  meditation,  awaiting  the  return 
of  the  messengers  iriih  Briseis,  Thetis  appears,  clad  in 
sparkling  silvery  robes  svggesting  sea  mists.  Agamemnon 
starts,  rises,  and  gazes  with  awe  upon  her. 

Agamemnon.  Whence  comest  thou,  and  art  thou  indeed, 
as  thou  seemest,  one  of  the  immortals? 

Thetis.  Yea,  an  immortal  am  I,  goddess  mother  of  Achil- 
les, lamentable  beyond  all  men!  Him  I  left  sorrowing 
beside  his  hut  and  black  ship;  to  thee  I  come  in  an  evil 
hour  bearing  a  mother's  curse.  And  I  go  hence  to 
snow-clad  Olympus,  to  tell  to  Zeus  the  grievous  woe  thou 
hast  brought  upon  Peleus'  son,  and  think  to  win  him. 

As  Thetis  disappears,  the  messengers  enter,  leading 
Briseis.  The  curtain  goes  down  as  Agamemnon  turns  to 
greet  her. 


Second  Year]        The  Lcist  of  the  Mohicttiis  19 

THE  LAST  OF   THE  MOHICAXS 

James   Fenimore   Cooper 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  three  scenes  selected  from  Cooper's  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans  are 
based  on  chaps,  xviii,  xxviii,  xxix,  xxx,  and  xxxiii.  The  scene  of  the 
council  is  very  much  condensed.  The  incident  of  the  trial  of  skill  with 
the  rifle  between  Hey  ward  and  Hawkeye  has  been  wholly  eliminated  as 
impracticable  under  high  school  conditions;  many  of  the  speeches  have 
been  cut;  and  the  parting  between  Alice  and  Cora  has  been  reduced  to 
pantomime  because  it  would  approach  dangerously  near  to  the  melo- 
dramatic in  the  hands  of  the  average  high  school  pupil. 

Since,  in  selecting  scenes  from  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  all  those 
which  involve  fighting  (a  characteristic  feature  of  the  story)  must  be 
eliminated,  the  device  of  introducing  the  Spirit  of  the  Mohicans,  to 
serve  the  purpose  of  Chorus,  as  in  the  Greek  drama,  has  been  adopted. 
In  this  capacity,  he  suggests  briefly  the  main  events  of  the  first  seven- 
teen chapters  of  the  novel,  in  the  Prologue;  covers  the  period  of  the 
search  from  chap,  xix  through  chap,  xxviii,  in  the  first  Interlude;  bridges 
over  the  story  from  chap,  xxxi  through  xxxii  and  part  of  xxxiii,  in  the 
second  Interlude,  and  rounds  out  the  play  with  an  p]pilogue.  A  long, 
involved  narrative  is  thus  materially  condensed,  without  too  great 
sacrifice,  and  three  widely  scattered  scenes  are  made  into  a  compact 
dramatic  unit.  To  differentiate  the  Chorus  from  the  actors  in  the 
play  itself  his  speeches  are  written  in  verse;  the  meter  of  Hiawatha  has 
been  chosen  for  its  obvious  appropriateness.  These  lines  may  be 
delivered  in  front  of  the  curtain,  or  with  the  curtain  raised,  at  will. 

The  characteristic  features  of  the  Indian  costume  are  so  well  known, 
and  the  materials  so  easily  obtainable,  that  the  costuming  of  the  Indians 
in  the  play  will  not  be  a  difficult  problem.  In  the  council  of  the  Dela- 
wares,  the  various  tribes  may  be  distinguished  by  touches  suggestive  of 
the  tribal  name:  Hawk,  Deer,  Bear,  Big  Snake,  Wolf,  etc.  The  totem 
of  the  Mohicans,  the  tortoise,  should  be  the  distinctive  mark  of  Uncas 
and  Chingachgook.  The  dress  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Mohicans  should  be 
that  of  a  Mohican  warrior,  somewhat  etherealized:  a  soft  misty  gray, 
with  touches  of  white,  will  give  the  desired  efi^ect.  The  costume  of  the 
Scout  is  fully  described  in  Cooper's  text.  To  reproduce  the  English 
officers'  uniform  of  the  Colonial  Period  with  historical  accuracy  may 


20  Drainatizaiion 


[Second  Year 


be  difficult,  but  as  the  scenes  in  which  Ileyward  and  Munro  appear 
follow  scenes  of  forest  tramping  or  hard  fifihting,  the  c(jstunics  may  be 
modiBed  to  meet  the  situation.  The  closing  scene  demands  one  or 
more  French  officers  in  trim  uniforms.  These  of  course  must  be 
historically  correct  and  may  require  the  help  of  costumers. 

Prologue 
Spirit  of  the  Mohicans 

Spirit  of  the  great  Mohicans — 
Earth-bound  till  the  last  brave  warriors, 
Chingachgook  and  agile  Uncas, 
Seek  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds — 
I  am  sent  to  you  with  tidings, 
Tidings  drear,  of  wile  and  bloodshed; 
Treachery  of  vengeful  Magna; 
Loyalty  of  brave  Mohican. 
Listen  to  the  direful  tidings! 

At  the  dawn,  the  hour  of  silence. 
Forth  the  serpent  ]Magua  led  them: 
Forth  he  led  the  youthful  warrior. 
Led  the  aged  chieftain's  daughters. 
Dark-eyed  Cora,  quiet,  thoughtful, 
Blue-eyed  Alice,  full  of  sunshine. 
Light  of  heart,  they  followed  after. 
Thinking  of  their  distant  father, 
Thinking  how  they  soon  would  meet  him; 
How  his  care-worn  face  would  brighten, 
When  they  came  within  the  fortress. 

But  the  Huron,  full  of  hatred. 
Led  them  into  many  dangers. 
Ere  they  reached  the  longed-for  portals 
Of  the  fort  beside  the  waters. 
Where  their  father  sadly  waited. 


Second  Year]  TllC    LciSt    of  tlw    MohicCUUS  21 

Waited  vainly  for  assistance, 
While  the  enemj',  the  Frenchman, 
Close  and  closer  pressed  upon  him, 
Bringing  dread  disaster  nearer! 

But  the  aged  warrior's  daughters. 
Rescued  by  the  brave  Mohicans, 
And  their  friend,  the  dauntless  Hawkeye, 
From  the  hand  of  hated  Huron, 
Came  at  last  to  cheer  their  father. 
Cheer  him  in  his  hour  of  peril. 

Short-lived  was  their  hearts'  rejoicing: 
They  must  leave  the  shelt'ring  fortress! 
Forth  they  marched,  the  "pale-face"  warriors 
In  the  rear  the  sick  and  wounded; 
Women,  children,  at  the  mercy 
Of  the  lurking  Irociuois! 
And  the  watchful  jNlagua  saw  them. 
Saw  the  daughters  of  Munro! 
Then  amidst  the  awful  slaughter 
That  o'ertook  the  helpless  band. 
Crafty  Magna  bore  the  sisters 
O'er  the  pathless  wilderness!  — 

But  I  hear  the  friendly  footsteps 
Of  the  last  of  the  Mohicans! 
Chingachgook  and  clear-eyed  Uncas 
Follow  closely  on  his  trail — 
On  the  trail  of  cruel  Magna! 
Silently  I  follow  after, — 
Like  the  mist  of  mighty  waters — ■ 
Where  the  brave  Mohicans  lead. 


^2  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Scene  I 

The  Search 

Characters: 
Chingachgook,  a  Mohican  Chief. 
Uncas,  his  Son. 
Hawkeye,  the  Scout. 
Colonel  Munro,  an  EngHsh  Officer. 
Major  Heyivard,  an  EngHsh  Officer. 

The  stage  represents  an  opening  in  the  forest, -with  a 
background  of  trees.  Here  and  there,  forming  a  trail  winding 
hack  and  forth  across  the  stage,  are  bushes  of  different  heights. 
The  floor  is  strewn  with  dried  leaves.  The  movement  along 
the  trail  must  be  slow,  and  the  action,  as  the  searchers  discover 
the  various  signs  of  the  passing  of  the  sisters  and  their  captor 
at  different  points  on  the  trail,  must  be  carefully  planned  with 
reference  to  the  stage  setting,  to  create  the  illusion.  If  the 
scene  is  given  out  of  doors,  the  solution  of  the  problem  unit  be 
less  difficult.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Uncas,  Chingachgook, 
Hawkeye,  Munro,  and  Heyioard  enter  left. 

Uncas.     [Pointing  to  a  tree  close  at  hand]     Hugh! 

Hawkeye.  [Cautiously]  What  is  it,  boy?  God  send  it 
be  a  tardy  Frencher,  skulking  for  plunder.  I  do  believe 
"  Killdeer"  would  take  an  uncommon  range  today ! 

Uncas,  without  replying,  bounds  aicay,  and  in  the  next 
instant  is  seen  tearing  from  the  branches  of  the  tree,  a 
fragment  of  the  green  riding-veil  of  Cora.  As  he  cries  out, 
the  whole  party  gather  about  him. 

Munro.     [Wildly]     My  child!     Give  me  my  child! 

Uncas.     [Gently]     Uncas  will  try. 

The  father  seizes  the  piece  of  gauze,  crushes  it  in  his 


Second  Year]  Tlw    LttSt    of   tkc    MoJlicaflS  23 

hand,  and  looks  fearfully  about  him  as  if  expecting  to  see 
the  body  of  his  daugJder. 

Heywakd.  Here  are  no  dead;  the  storm  seems  not  to  have 
passed  this  way. 

Hawkeye.  [Calmly]  That's  manifest,  and  clearer  than 
the  heavens  above  our  heads,  but  either  she,  or  tliey 
that  have  robbed  her,  have  passed  the  bush;  for  I 
remember  the  rag  she  wore  to  hide  a  face  that  all  did 
love  to  look  upon.  Uncas,  you  are  right;  the  dark-hair 
has  been  here  and  she  has  fled,  like  a  frightened  fawn, 
to  the  wood;  none  who  could  fly  would  remain  to  be 
murdered.  Let  us  search  for  the  marks  she  left;  for  to 
Indian  eyes  I  sometimes  think  even  a  humming-bird 
leaves  his  trail  in  the  air.  [Uncas  darts  arcay,  looking 
closely  at  each  bush,  and  examining  the  ground  for  foot- 
prints. Suddenly  he  utters  a  cry,  and  holds  up  another 
fragment  of  the  veil  which  he  has  found  on  a  bush  a  little 
farther  on  the  trail.  Ileyward  starts  eagerly  forioard,  hut  the 
Scout  holds  him  back,  extending  his  rifle  to  stop  his  progress] 
Softly,  softly,  we  now  know  our  work,  but  the  beauty  of 
the  trail  must  not  be  deformed.  A  step  too  soon  may 
give  us  hours  of  trouble.  We  have  them,  though;  that 
much  is  beyond  denial. 

MuNRO.  Bless  ye,  bless  ye,  worthy  man!  AMiither,  then, 
have  they  fled,  and  where  are  my  babes? 

Hawkeye.  The  path  they  have  taken  depends  on  many 
chances.  If  they  have  gone  alone,  they  are  quite  as 
likely  to  move  in  a  circle  as  straight,  and  they  may  be 
within  a  dozen  miles  of  us;  but  if  the  Hurons,  or  any  of 
the  French  Indians,  have  laid  hands  on  them,  'tis  prob- 
able they  are  now  near  the  borders  of  the  Canadas. 

MuNRO.     [Changing  from  hope  to  disappointment]     Alas! 

Heyw.vrd.  [f'Aigerly]  Is  there  not  a  chance  that  we  may 
overtake  them? 


24  Dramatizalion  rsocordYear 

Hawkeye.  Ay,  my  lad.  Here  are  the  Mohicans  and  I 
on  one  end  of  the  trail,  and,  rely  on  it,  we  find  the 
other,  though  they  should  be  a  hundred  leagues  asunder. 
[To  Uncas,  who  moves  about,  impatient  of  delay]  Gently, 
gently,  Uncas,  you  are  as  impatient  as  a  man  in  the 
settlements;  you  forget  that  light  feet  leave  but  faint 
marks ! 

Chingachgook.  [Who  in  the  meantime  has  been  examining 
an  ofcning  in  the  bushes,  standing  erect  and  pointing 
downward]     Hugh ! 

Heyward.  {Bending  over  the  spot]  Here  is  the  palpable 
impression  of  the  footstep  of  a  man;  the  mark  cannot 
be  mistaken.     They  are  captives. 

Hawkeye.  Better  so  than  left  to  starve  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  they  wiU  leave  a  wider  trail.  I  would  wager 
fifty  beaver  skins  against  as  many  flints  that  the  Mohi- 
cans and  I  enter  their  wigwams  within  the  month! 
Stoop  to  it,  Uncas,  and  try  what  you  can  make  of  the 
moccasin;  for  moccasin  it  plainly  is,  and  no  shoe. 

Uncas  bends  over  the  track,  removes  the  scattered  leaves, 
examines  it  closely,  and  then  rises  from  his  knees  with  a 
satisfied  expression  on  his  face. 

Hawkeye.  [Who  has  been  observing  him  attentively]  Well, 
boy,  what  does  it  say?  Can  you  make  anything  of  the 
tell-tale? 

Uncas.     Le  Renard  Subtil! 

Miinro  and  Heyicard  look  startled.  Chingachgook  is 
unmoved. 

Hawkeye.  [Patting  his  rifle  significantly]  Ha!  that  ram- 
paging devil  again!  There  never  will  be  an  end  of  his 
loping  till  "Killdeer"  has  said  a  friendly  word  to 
him. 

Heyward.  [Hopefidly]  One  moccasin  is  so  much  like  an- 
other, it  is  probable  there  is  some  mistake. 


Second  Year]  Tlw    Lcist    of   the    MollicaUS  25 

Hawkeye.  One  moccasin  like  another!  You  may  as  well 
say  that  one  foot  is  like  another;  though  we  all  know 
that  some  are  long,  and  others  short;  some  broad,  and 
others  narrow;  some  with  high,  and  some  with  low  in- 
steps; some  in-toed,  and  some  out.  One  moccasin  is  no 
more  like  another  than  one  book  is  like  another;  though 
they  who  can  read  in  one  are  seldom  able  to  tell  the 
marks  of  the  other.  Which  is  all  ordered  for  the  best, 
giving  to  every  man  his  natural  advantages.  Let  me 
get  down  to  it,  Uncas;  neither  book  nor  moccasin  is  the 
worse  for  having  two  opinions,  instead  of  one.  [Exam- 
ines the  track  carefully]  You  are  right,  boj^  here  is  the 
j)atch  we  saw  so  often  in  the  other  chase.  And  the  fel- 
low will  drink  when  he  can  get  an  opportunity;  your 
drinking  Indian  always  learns  to  walk  with  a  wider  toe 
than  the  natural  savage,  it  being  the  gift  of  a  drunkard 
to  straddle,  whether  of  white  or  red  skin.  'Tis  just  the 
length  and  breadth,  too!  [Turn big  to  Chingachgook] 
Look  at  it.  Sagamore;  3'ou  measured  the  prints  more 
than  once,  when  we  hunted  the  varmints  from  Glenn's 
to  the  health-springs. 

Chingachgook.  [Stooping  to  examine  the  footprint,  then 
rising  quietly]     Magna! 

Hawkeye.  Ay,  'tis  a  settled  thing;  here  then  have  passed 
the  dark-hair  and  Magna. 

Heyward.     [Anxiousbj]     And  not  Alice? 

Hawkeye.  [Looking  closely  around  at  the  trees,  bushes,  and 
ground]  Of  her  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  .signs.  [Sud- 
denly pointing  to  a  bush  a  little  farther  to  the  right]  What 
have  we  there?  Uncas,  bring  hither  the  thing  you  see 
dangling  from  yonder  thorn-bush.  [Cncas  obeys  quickly 
and  returns  with  a  pitch-pipe.  The  Scout  holds  it 
up,  laughing  quietly]  'Tis  the  tooting  wc'pon  of  the 
singer!     Now    we    shall    have    a    trail    a    priest    might 


2G  Dramatization  [second  Year 

travel.  Uncas,  look  for  tlie  marks  of  a  shoe  that  is  long 
enough  to  uphold  six  feet  two  of  tottering  human  flesh. 
I  begin  to  have  some  hopes  of  the  fellow,  since  he  has 
given  up  squalling  to  follow  some  better  trade. 

Heywaud.  At  least,  he  has  been  faithful  to  his  trust,  and 
Cora  and  Alice  are  not  without  a  friend. 

Hawkeye.  [Leaning  on  his  rifle — ivith  an  air  of  contempt] 
Yes,  he  will  do  their  singing!  Can  he  slay  a  buck  for 
their  dinner,  journey  by  the  moss  on  the  beeches,  or 
cut  the  throat  of  a  Huron?  If  not,  the  first  catbird  he 
meets  is  the  cleverest  of  the  two.  [To  Uncas  who  has 
been  searching  for  David's  footprint]  Well,  boy,  any 
signs  of  such  a  foundation? 

Hey  WARD.  [Who  has  also  been  searching  during  Hawkeye' s 
last  speech]  Here  is  something  like  the  footstep  of  one 
who  has  worn  a  shoe;  can  it  be  that  of  our  friend? 

Hawkeye.  [CoiJiing  forward  quickly]  Touch  the  leaves 
lightly,  or  you  '11  disconsart  the  formation.  That !  That 
is  the  print  of  a  foot,  but  'tis  the  dark-hair's;  and  small 
it  is,  too,  for  one  of  such  a  noble  height  and  grand 
appearance.     The  singer  would  cover  it  with  his  heel. 

MuNRO.  [Excitedly,  shoving  the  bushes  aside  and  bending 
over  the  track]  Where!  Let  me  look  on  the  footsteps 
of  my  child. 

Heyward.  [Trying  to  divert  the  old  man's  grief]  As  we 
now  possess  these  infallible  signs,  let  us  commence  our 
march.  A  moment,  at  such  a  time,  will  appear  an  age 
to  the  captives. 

Hawkeye.  [Glancing  at  first  one,  then  another  of  the  marks 
that  have  been  discovered]  It  is  not  the  swiftest-leaping 
deer  that  gives  the  longest  chase.  We  know  that  the 
rampaging  Huron  has  passed, —  and  the  dark-hair, — 
and  the  singer, —  but  where  is  she  of  the  yellow  locks 
and  blue  eyes?     Though  little,  and  far  from  being  as 


Second  Year]  Tlw    Lust    of   tlw    MokicanS  27 

bold  as  her  sister,  she  is  fair  to  the  view  and  pleasant 
in  discourse.     Has  she  no  friend,  that  none  care  for  her? 

Heyward.  God  forbid  she  should  ever  want  hundreds,' 
Are  we  not  in  her  pursuit?  For  one,  I  will  never  cease 
the  search  till  she  is  found. 

Hawkeye.  In  that  case  we  may  have  to  journey  by 
different  paths;  for  here  she  has  not  passed,  light  and  little 
as  her  footstep  would  be.  There  is  no  woman  in  this 
wilderness  could  leave  such  a  print  as  that  [Pointing 
to  the  footprint]  but  the  dark-hair  or  her  sister.  We 
know  that  the  first  has  been  here,  but  where  are  the 
signs  of  the  other?  We  must  look  more  closely  at  the 
trail  and  if  nothing  offers,  we  must  go  back  to  the  plain 
and  strike  another  scent.  Move  on,  Uncas,  and  keep 
your  eyes  on  the  dried  leaves.  I  will  watch  the  bushes, 
while  your  father  shall  run  with  a  low  nose  to  the  ground. 
They  resume  the  search  in  silence. 

Heyward.     Is  there  nothing  I  can  do? 

Hawkeye.  You!  Yes,  you  can  keep  in  our  rear,  and  be 
careful  not  to  cross  the  trail. 

Uncas  and  Chingachgook  stop,  look  at  the  ground,  and 
then  at  each  other,  in  mntnal  satisfaction. 

Haavkeye.  [Movi7ig  forward]  They  have  found  the  little 
foot!  —  [On  nearer  view] — What  have  we  here?  By  the 
truest  rifle  on  the  frontiers,  here  have  been  them  one- 
sided horses  again!  Now  the  whole  secret  is  out,  and 
all  is  plain  as  the  north  star  at  midnight!  Yes,  here 
they  have  mounted.  There  the  beasts  have  been  bound 
to  a  sapling,  in  waiting;  and  yonder  runs  the  broad  path 
away  to  the  north,  in  full  sweep  for  the  Canadas. 

Heyward.  But  still  there  are  no  signs  of  Alice — of  the 
younger  Miss  Munro! 

Hawkeye.  [Looking  in  the  direction  of  Uncas,  icho  holds 
in  his  hand  a  shining  jewel]     Unless  the  shining  bauble 


28  Dramatization  rsecondYear 

Uncas  has  just  lifted  from  the  ground  shouhJ  prove  one. 
Pass  it  this  way,  lad,  that  we  may  look  at  it. 

Heyward.  [Excitedly  seizing  the  jewel]  It  is  hers!  I  saw 
it  on  her  neck  the  morning  w^e  left  the  fort ! —  I  '11  keep 
it  to  deliver  to  her  at  the  end  of  the  trail! — Let  us 
hasten! — Why  do  we  delay  longer? 

Hawkeye.  Young  blood  and  hot  blood,  they  say,  are 
much  the  same  thing.  We  are  not  about  to  start  on  a 
squirrel  hunt,  or  to  drive  a  deer  into  the  Horican,  but 
to  outlie  for  days  and  nights,  and  to  stretch  across  a 
wilderness  where  the  feet  of  men  seldom  go,  and  where 
no  bookish  knowledge  would  carry  you  through  harm- 
less. xA.n  Indian  never  starts  on  such  an  expedition 
without  smoking  over  his  council-fire;  and,  though  a 
man  of  white  blood,  I  honor  their  customs  in  this 
particular,  seeing  that  they  are  deliberate  and 
wise.  We  will,  therefore,  go  back,  and  light  our  fire 
tonight  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  fort,  and  in  the 
morning  we  shall  be  fresh  and  ready  to  undertake 
our  work  like  men,  and  not  like  babbling  women  or 
eager  boys. 

Uncas  springs  lightly  ahead,  folloiced  by  Chingachgook. 
Heyward  takes  the  arm  of  Miinro,  who  has  been  leaning 
against  a  tree  in  a  sort  of  lethargy,  and  Hawkeye  brings 
vp  the  rear. 

Curtain 

First  Interlude 

Spirit  of  the  Mohicans 

Honor  to  the  brave  Mohicans, 
And  the  ever-faithful  Hawkeye! 
Northward  moving  through  the  forest. 


Second  Year]  Tlw    LttSt    of  tkc    MokicatlS  29 

Cautiously  they  cut  their  pathway. 
Oft  in  danger  from  the  arrows 
Of  the  hostile  Mingo  warriors. 
Near  the  Canadas  they  tracked  him, 
Tracked  the  wily  reptile,  Magna! 

As  they  skirted  round  the  outposts 
Of  the  hated  Huron  chieftain, 
There  they  found  within  the  forest, 
David,  captive  of  the  Huron. 
Soon  the  story  he  had  told  them 
Of  the  gentle  sisters'  capture; 
Of  the  journey  to  the  northward; 
How  the  younger  sister  languished 
In  the  camp  they  saw  before  them. 
Parted  from  the  dark-eyed  Cora, 
Wearily  her  fate  awaiting, 
In  the  Delaware  encampment. 

When  they  heard  the  singer's  story, 
Knew  the  sisters  safe,  though  captive, 
They  rejoiced^ — but  did  not  tarry; 
For  they  knew  the  dangers  lurking. 
Knew  the  hatred  which  the  Hm'on 
Bore  the  daughters'  aged  father! 

Long  the  story — swift  the  action: 
Alice  borne  by  Duncan  Heyward 
From  the  cave  where  she  had  sorrowed; 
Uncas,  rescued  for  the  moment 
From  the  cruel  Magua's  i)ower. 
By  the  ever-faithful  Hawkeye. 

But  no  more — in  silence  moving 
They  are  coming  to  the  council. 
Come  with  me!     I  follow  after 
To  the  council  of  the  chieftains. 
Chieftains  of  the  Delawares. 


30  Dramatization  [second  year 

Scene  II 

The  Council  of  the  Delawares 

Characters: 

Hard  Heart,  a  Delaware  Chief. 

Tamenund,  a  Delaware  Patriarch, 

First  Chief    \,^        ^      e  rr  j 

„         T  rn  •  /.>l^scorts  oi  lamenund. 
Second  Cliiej } 

Magua,  a  Huron  Chief. 

Uncas. 

Hawkeye. 

Alice. 

Cora. 

Major  Heyward. 

David  Gamut,  the  Singer. 

Delaware  Chiefs,  Squaws,  and  Boys. 

The  stage  represents  a  clearing  in  the  woods,  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  Delaware  encampment.  The  same  background 
may  he  used  as  in  scene  i.  In  the  rear-center,  on  a  platform 
raised  the  height  of  two  steps  above  the  ground,  is  a  rudely 
constructed  throne  for  the  presiding  chief, icith  a  seat  to  right  and 
left.  Ranged  on  either  side,  somewhat  irregularly,  but  preserving 
the  general  outline  of  a  semi-circle,  are  a  number  of  low  seats,  sug- 
gestive of  stumps  of  trees  and  irregularities  in  the  ground, for  the 
chiefs  in  council.  Openings  for  ejitrances,  and  space  in  the 
rear,  for  the  passing  of  squaws  and  Indian  boys  at  play,  are  left. 
By  this  arrangement,  which  departs  somewhatfrom  thehistorical 
accounts  of  Indian  councils,  the  center  of  the  stage  is  free  for  the 
action.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Magua  is  presenting  the  last  of  a 
number  of  gifts,  ivhich  he  has  been  distributing  among  a  small 
group  of  Delaware  chiefs  gathered  about  him.  Curious  squaics, 
passing  back  and  forth  during  the  dialogue,  and  boys  at  play, 
stop  now  and  then  to  peer  at  the  gifts. 


Second  Year]        The  Lttst  of  tlic  Mokicans  31 

Hard  Heart.     My  brother  is  a  wise  chief.     He  is  welcome. 

Magua.  The  Hurons  love  their  friends  the  Dehiwares. 
Why  should  they  not?  They  are  colored  by  the  same 
sun,  and  their  just  men  will  hunt  in  the  same  grounds 
after  death.  The  redskins  should  be  friends,  and  look 
with  open  eyes  on  the  white  men. — Has  not  my  brother 
scented  spies  in  the  woods? 

Hard  Heart.  There  have  been  strange  moccasins  about 
my  camp.     They  have  been  tracked  into  my  lodges. 

Magua.     Did  my  brother  beat  out  the  dogs? 

Hard  Heart.  It  would  not  do.  The  stranger  is  always 
welcome  to  the  children  of  the  Lenape. 

Magua.  The  stranger,  but  not  the  spy.  The  Yengeese 
have  sent  out  their  scouts.  They  have  been  in  my  wig- 
wams, but  they  found  there  no  one  to  say  welcome. 
Then  they  fled  to  the  Delawares — for,  say  they,  the 
Delaware's  are  our  friends;  their  minds  are  turned  from 
their  Canada  father! 

Hard  Heart  and  the  other  Delaware  chiefs  lose  their 
native  calm  for  a  moment,  and  their  faces  shoiv  a  sugges- 
tion of  anger  at  this  insinuation.  They  quickly  recover 
their  poise,  however.     Magua  watches  them  intently. 

Hard  Heart.  Let  my  father  look  in  my  face;  he  will  see 
no  change.  It  is  true,  my  young  men  did  not  go  out  on 
the  war-path;  they  had  dreams  for  not  doing  so.  But 
they  love  and  venerate  the  great  white  chief. 

Magua.  Will  he  think  so  when  he  hears  that  his  greatest 
enemy  is  fed  in  the  camp  of  his  children  ?  When  he  is  told  a 
bloody  Ycngee  smokes  at  your  fire?  That  the  pale  face  who 
has  slain  so  many  of  his  friends  goes  in  and  out  among 
the  Delawares?  Go!  My  great  Canada  father  is  not  a  fool! 
The  Delaware  chiefs  show  signs  of  excitement  by  looking 
at  each  other,  though  the  expression  of  their  faces  scarcely 
changes.     Hard  Heart  is  the  first  to  recover. 


32  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Hard  Heart.  Where  is  the  Yengee  that  the  Delawarcs 
fear?  Who  has  shiin  my  young  men?  Who  is  the 
mortal  enemy  of  my  Great  Father? 

Magua.  [In  a  low,  hut  penetrating  voice]  La  Longue 
Carabine ! 

The  Delaivare  warriors  start  al  this  well-known  name. 
The  .s-quaivs  jmnse  in  their  labors  to  listen  vdth  interest. 
A  hoy  running  in  the  rear,  stops  suddenly,  intent  upon 
the  words  of  Magua. 

Hard  Heart.  [Betraying  his  excitement]  What  does  my 
brother  mean? 

Magua.  A  Huron  never  lies!  [Standing  erect,  tvith  arms 
folded  across  his  chest,  and  glaring  toicard  the  opening 
in  the  trees,  in  the  direction  of  the  camp]  Let  the  Dela- 
wares  count  their  prisoners;  they  will  find  one  whose 
skin  is  neither  red  nor  pale. 

Hard  Heart  summons,  with  a  gesture,  three  of  the 
Indian  youths  who  hare  approached  during  the  dialogue 
and  ivhispers  to  them.  Then  they  dart  out  quickly  in  different 
directions. 

Hard  Heart.  [To  Magua]  The  Delawares  must  take 
council.     I  have  spread  the  word. 

07ie  hy  one,  the  chiefs  enter,  and  seat  themselves,  glanc- 
ing at  Magua,  who  stands  immovable,  as  they  assemble. 
Squatvs  gather  in  the  background  and  groups  of  boys  sit 
on  the  ground  here  aiid  there,  outside  of  the  circle  of  chiefs. 
Low  guttural  mutterings  are  heard.  When  they  are  all 
seated,  three  aged  men  appear  at  the  entrance  on  one  side 
of  the  stage.  The  central  figure  is  the  oldest, — a  patriarch 
of  great  age.  His  face  is  icrinkled;  his  long,  white  hair  is 
encircled  icith  a  glittering  diadem  and  adorned  with  black 
ostrich  plumes.  Medals  cover  his  breast.  His  weapons, 
the  tomahawk  and  knife,  glisten  with  jewels.  The  assembled 
company  rise  on  his  entrance  and  stand  in  an  attitude  of 


Second  Year]        The  Lcist  of  tJic  Mokicans  33 

veneration,  as  he  is  escorted  to  the  throne.  Whispers  of 
"'Tamemmd"  are  heard.  Magna  shows  his  interest  by 
stepping  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view.  When  Tamenund 
is  seated,  with  his  companions  on  either  side,  the  chief  on 
his  right  hand  rises,  signals  the  company  to  be  seated,  and 
resumes  his  seat.  At  this  moment,  under  escort  of  Dela- 
ware warriors,  Cora  and  Alice  enter,  closely  followed  by 
Heyward  and  Ilawkeye.  David  Gamut  brings  up  the 
rear.  The  prisoners  are  escorted  into  the  open  space 
in  front  of  the  throne.  During  the  first  part  of  the  scene, 
Tamenund  sits,  with  closed  eyes,  oblivious  of  his  sur- 
roundings. During  the  gathering  of  the  chiefs,  strai7is  of 
Indian  music  may  be  softly  played. 

First  Chief.  [At  Tamenund's  right]  Which  of  the 
prisoners  is  La  Longue  Carabine? 

Neither  Heyward  nor  Hawk  eye  answers.  Heyward  looks 
around  the  assembly,  and  starts  slightly,  when  his  eye  falls 
upon  Magna. 

Second  Chief.  [In  a  clearer  voice]  Which  of  the  pris- 
oners is  La  Longue  Carabine? 

Heyward.  [Haughtily  stepping  forward]  Give  us  arms 
and  place  us  in  yonder  woods.  Our  deeds  shall  speak 
for  us! 

First  Chief.  [Regarding  Heyward  with  some  interest] 
This  is  the  warrior  whose  name  has  filled  our  ears! 
What  has  brought  the  white  man  into  the  camp  of  the 
Delawares? 

Heyward.  My  necessities.  I  come  for  food,  shelter,  and 
friends. 

First  Chief.  It  cannot  be.  The  woods  are  full  of  game. 
The  head  of  a  warrior  needs  no  other  shelter  than  a  sky 
without  clouds;  and  the  Delawares  are  the  enemies,  and 
not  the  friends  of  the  Yengeese.  Go!  The  mouth  has 
spoken,  while  the  heart  said  nothing. 


34  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Hawkeye.  [Approaching,  stands  in  front  of  the  two  chiefs 
and  Tamenund,  with  his  rifle  slung  across  his  shordder] 
That  I  did  not  answer  to  the  call  for  LaLongue  Carabine 
was  not  owing  either  to  shame  or  fear,  for  neither  one  nor 
the  other  is  the  gift  of  an  honest  man.  IJut  I  do  not  admit 
the  right  of  the  Mingoes  to  bestow  a  name  on  one  whose 
friends  have  been  mindful  of  his  gifts,  in  this  particular; 
especially  as  their  title  is  a  lie,  "Killdeer"  being  a  grooved 
barrel  and  no  carabyne.  I  am  the  man,  however,  that 
got  the  name  of  Nathaniel  from  my  kin;  the  compliment 
of  Hawkeye  from  the  Delawares,  who  live  on  their  own 
river;  and  whom  the  Iroquois  have  presumed  to  style 
the  "Long  Rifle,"  without  any  warranty  from  him  who 
is  most  concerned  in  the  matter. 

The  two  chiefs  look  puzzled,  as  they  glance  from  Haivk- 
eye  to  Heyivard.  The  eyes  of  the  assembly  are  directed 
toioard  Haivkeye,  displaying  an  interest  nnusual  among 
chiefs  in  council. 

First  Chief.     [Looking  toivard  Magna]     My  brother  has 
said  that  a  snake  crept  into  my  camp.     Which  is  he? 
Magna  points  to  Hawkeye. 

Heyward.  Will  a  wise  Delaware  believe  the  barking  of 
a  wolf?  A  dog  never  lies,  but  when  was  a  wolf  known 
to  speak  the  truth? 

Magua.  [Starts  forward  as  if  to  answer,  a  flash  of  anger  in 
his  face;  then  resumes  his  former  position,  turning  toicard 
the  chief]  The  Huron  never  lies.  Magua  has  spoken. 
There  stands  La  Longue  Carabine. 

First  Chief.     It  is  good.     Brother,  the  Delawares  listen. 
Magua,  thus  challenged  to  declare  his  purpose,  takes  his 
place  on  the  step  of  the  platform,  in  front  of  the  three  aged 
chiefs  and  facing  the  assembly. 

Magua.  The  Spirit  that  made  men  colored  them  differ- 
ently.      Some    he    made    with    faces    paler    than    the 


Second  Tear]        The  Lctst  of  the  Mokiccins  35 

ermine  of  the  forests;  and  these  he  ordered  to  be 
traders — dogs  to  their  women,  and  wolves  to  their 
slaves.  He  gave  this  people  the  nature  of  the  pigeon; 
wings  that  never  tire,  and  appetites  to  devour  the  earth. 
He  gave  them  tongues  like  the  false  call  of  the  wild-cat, 
hearts  like  rabbits,  and  arms  longer  than  the  legs  of  the 
moose.  With  his  tongue  he  stops  the  ears  of  the  Indians; 
his  heart  teaches  him  to  pay  warriors  to  fight  his  bat- 
tles; his  cunning  tells  him  how  to  get  together  the  goods 
of  the  earth;  and  his  arms  inclose  the  land  from  the 
shores  of  the  salt-water  to  the  islands  of  the  great  lake. 
God  gave  him  enough,  and  yet  he  wants  all.  Such  are 
the  palefaces.  Some  the  Great  Spirit  made  with  skins 
brighter  and  redder  than  the  sun.  If  the  Great  Spirit 
gave  different  tongues  to  his  red  children,  [in  a 
low,  melancholy  voice]  it  was  that  all  animals  might 
understand  them.  Some  he  placed  near  the  setting  sun, 
on  the  road  to  the  happy  hunting-grounds;  some  on  the 
lands  around  the  great  fresh  waters;  but  to  his  greatest, 
and  most  beloved,  he  gave  the  sands  of  the  salt  lake. 
Do  my  brothers  know  the  name  of  this  favored  people? 

Sever.\l  Voices.     It  was  the  Lenape! 

Magua.  It  was  the  tribes  of  the  Lenape !  But  why  should 
I,  a  Huron  of  the  woods,  tell  a  wise  people  their  own 
traditions?  Why  remind  them  of  their  injuries;  their 
ancient  greatness;  their  deeds;  their  glory;  their  happi- 
ness—  their  losses;  their  defeats;  their  misery?  Is  there 
not  one  among  them  who  has  seen  it  all,  and  who  knows 
it  to  be  true?  [Turning  to  Tamennnd]  I  have  done. 
My  tongue  is  still,  for  my  heart  is  of  lead.  I  listen. 
[Stefs  doivn  and  goes  a  short  distance  away] 

As  Magua  speaks,  Tamennnd  betrays  signs  of  con- 
sciousness for  the  first  time,  and  raises  his  head  owe  or 
twice,  as  if  to  listen.     When  the  name  of  his  nation  is 


36  Dramatization  [second  Year 

spo1:en,  the  old  man's  eyelids  open  and  he  looks  out  upon 
tlie  assembly  with  didl  eyes.  When  Magud's  voice  ceases, 
he  struggles  to  rise  and  is  supported  by  his  two  companions 

Tamenund.  [In  a  deep,  guttural  voice]  Who  calls  n\Hm 
the  children  of  the  Lenape? 

Magua.  [Approaching  the  platform  again]  It  is  a  Wyan- 
dot; a  friend  of  Tamenund. 

Tamenund.  [Frowning]  xV  friend!  Are  the  Mingoes  rulers 
of  the  earth?     W^hat  brings  a  Huron  here? 

Magua.  Justice.  His  prisoners  are  with  his  brothers,  and 
he  comes  for  his  own. 

Tamenund.  Justice  is  the  law  of  the  great  Manitou.  My 
children,  give  the  stranger  food.  Then,  Huron,  take 
thine  own  and  depart. 

As  these  words  are  spoken,  two  young  warriors  step 
quickly  behind  Haickeye,  and  bind  hirn  with  thongs  before 
he  can  resist.  Magua,  with  a  malicious  look  toward  Cora, 
seizes  Alice,  and  beckons  Heyward  to  follotv,  but  Cora,  to 
Magua  s  surprise,  instead  of  folio wirig,  rushes  toward  the 
platform  and  throws  herself  at  the  Patriarch's  feet.  Magua 
stops,  spell-bound  for  the  moment. 

Cora.  Just  and  venerable  Delaware,  on  thy  wisdom  and 
power  we  lean  for  mercy!  Be  deaf  to  yonder  remorse- 
less monster  who  poisons  thy  ears  with  falsehoods  to 
feed  his  thirst  for  blood! 

Tamenund.  [Aroused  again  by  Cord's  voice,  opening  his 
eyes  heavily]     What  art  thou? 

Cora.  A  woman.  One  of  a  hated  race,  if  thou  wilt  —  a 
Yengee.  But  one  who  has  never  harmed  thee,  and  who 
cannot  harm  thy  people,  if  she  would;  who  asks  for 
succor.  Art  thou  not  Tamenund — the  father — the 
judge  of  this  people? 

Tamenund.     I  am  Tamenund  of  many  days. 

Cora.     Tell  me,  is  Tamenund  a  father? 


Second  Year]        Tlic  Lcist  of  the  Mohicaus  37 

Tamenund.  [Looking  down  with  a  benignant  smile,  and  then 
turning  his  eyes  toward  the  whole  assembly \     Of  a  nation, 

Cora.  For  myself  I  ask  nothing.  [Turning  toward  Alice] 
But  yonder  is  one  who  has  never  known  the  weight  of 
Heaven's  displeasure  until  now.  Save  her  to  comfort 
an  aged  father's  last  days!  Save  her  from  that  cruel 
villain!  [Tamenund  does  not  answer.  Cora  stands  a 
moment  with  arms  outstretched  in  appeal]  There  is  yet 
one  of  thine  own  people  Avho  has  not  been  brought 
before  thee;  before  thou  lettest  the  Huron  depart  in 
triumph,  hear  him  speak. 

Tamen  und  looks  doubtfully  toward  one  of  his  companions. 

First  Chief.  It  is  a  snake  —  a  redskin  in  the  pay  of  the 
Yengeese.     We  keep  him  for  the  torture. 

Tamenund.     Let  him  come. 

The  Second  Chief  beckons  to  a  youth  near  the  platform, 
to  bring  the  prisoner.  Silence  falls  on  the  assembly,  as  the 
messenger  departs.  All  eyes  are  turned  in  the  direction  of 
his  exit.  The  messenger  returns  quickly,  followed  by 
Uncas,  who  glances  hastily  about  him;  then,  as  his  eye  falls 
upon  Tamenund,  he  steps  forward,  and  stands  erect  before 
the  platform. 

First  Chief.  [To  Tamenund,  icho  sits  ivith  closed  eyes] 
The  prisoner  stands  before  thee. 

Tamenund.  [Still  loith  closed  eyes]  With  what  tongue 
does  the  prisoner  speak  to  the  Manitou? 

Uncas.     Like  his  fathers,  with  the  tongue  of  a  Delaware. 
A  hostile  murmur  runs  through  the  assembly. 

Tamenund.  A  Delaware!  I  have  lived  to  see  the  tribes 
of  the  Lenupe  driven  from  their  council-fires,  and  scat- 
tered, like  broken  herds  of  deer,  among  the  hills  of  the 
Iroquois,  but  never  before  have  I  found  a  Delaware  so 
base  as  to  creep,  like  a  poisonous  serpent,  into  the  camps 
of  his  nation. 


38  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Uncas.  [In  a  low,  distinct,  viunical  tone]  The  singing- 
birds  have  opened  their  bills,  and  Tamenund  has  heard 
their  song. 

Tamenund  starts  and  bends  his  head  to  listen,  as  if  to 
strains  of  music. 

Tamenund.  Does  Tamenund  dream!  What  voice  is  at 
his  ear!  Have  the  winters  gone  backward!  Will  sum- 
mer come  again  to  the  children  of  the  Lenape! 

The  assembly  is  awed,  as  at  the  voice  of  a  prophet. 
Tamenund  sinks  into  a  lethargy  again,  but  is  aroused  by 
the  First  Chief. 

First  Chief.  The  false  Delaware  trembles  lest  he  should 
hear  the  words  of  Tamenund.  'Tis  a  hound  that  howls 
when  the  Yengeese  show  him  a  trail. 

Uncas.     [Looking  sternly  around  him]     And  ye  are  dogs  that 
whine,  when  the  Frenchman  casts  ye  the  offals  of  his  deer ! 
Some  of  the  warriors  spring  up,  brandishing  knives, 
but  are  quieted  at  a  signal  from  the  Second  Chief. 

Tamenund.  Delaware!  Little  art  thou  worthy  of  thy 
name.  The  warrior  who  deserts  his  tribe  when  hid  in 
clouds  is  doubly  a  traitor.  The  law  of  the  Manitou  is 
just.     He  is  thine,  my  children;  deal  justly  by  him. 

With  a  groiol  of  vengeance,  the  warriors  spring  toward 
Uncas,  but  he  leaps  to  one  side,  to2rard  the  front  of  the  stage, 
throws  aside  the  skin  which  he  ivears,and  reveals  the  tortoise, 
the  totem  of  his  tribe,  painted  on  the  front  of  his  close-fitting 
jacket.  The  warriors  are  aired,  and  stand  back.  Uncas 
draws  himself  up  proudly  and  speaks  icith  the  air  of  a  king. 

Uncas.  Men  of  the  Lenni  Lenape!  My  race  upholds  the 
earth!  Your  feeble  tribe  stands  on  my  shell!  What 
fire  that  a  Delaware  can  light  would  burn  the  child  of 
my  fathers?  [Pointing  proudly  to  the  tortoise]  The  blood 
that  came  from  such  a  stock  would  smother  your  flames ! 
My  race  is  the  grandfather  of  nations! 


Second  Year]        The  Lttst  of  the  Mohicaus  39 

Tamenund.     [Rising  excitedly]     Who  art  thou? 

Uncas.  [Beyiding  his  head  touxird  Tamenund  reverently] 
Uncas,  the  son  of  Chingachgook,  a  son  of  the  great 
Unamis,  of  the  tribe  of  the  Tortoise. 

Tamenund.  The  hour  of  Tamenund  is  nigh!  The  day 
is  come,  at  last,  to  the  night!  I  thank  the  Manitou  that 
one  is  here  to  fill  my  place  at  the  council-fire.  Uncas, 
the  child  of  Uncas,  is  found !  Let  the  eyes  of  a  dying 
eagle  gaze  on  the  rising  sun. 

Uncas  steps  proudly  upon  the  platform;  Tamenund  gazes 
intently  u])on  the  youth. 

Tamenund.  Our  wise  men  have  often  said  that  two  war- 
riors of  the  unchanged  race  were  in  the  hills  of  the  Yen- 
geese.  Why  have  their  seats  at  the  council-fires  of  the 
Delawares  been  so  long  empty? 

Uncas.  [Raising  his  head,  and  lifting  his  voice  so  as  to  be 
heard  by  the  assembly]  Once  we  slept  where  we  could 
hear  the  salt  lake  speak  in  its  anger.  Then  we  were 
rulers  and  sagamores  over  the  land.  But  when  a  pale 
face  was  seen  on  every  brook,  we  followed  the  deer  l)ack 
to  the  river  of  our  nation.  The  Delawares  were  gone. 
Then  said  my  fathers,  "Here  will  we  hunt.  The  waters 
of  the  river  go  into  the  salt  lake.  If  we  go  toward  the 
setting  sun,  we  shall  find  streams  that  run  into  the  great 
lakes  of  sweet  water;  there  would  a  Mohican  die,  like 
fishes  of  the  sea  in  the  clear  springs.  When  the  Mani- 
tou is  ready,  and  shall  say  'Come,'  we  will  follow  the 
river  to  the  sea,  and  take  our  own  again."  Such,  Dela- 
wares, is  the  belief  of  the  children  of  the  Turtle.  Our 
eyes  are  on  the  rising,  and  not  toward  the  setting  sun. 
We  know  whence  he  comes,  but  we  know  not  whither 
he  goes.  It  is  enough.  [Uncas,  looking  over  the  assembly 
from  his  elevated  position,  for  the  first  time  sees  Hawkeye, 
bound.     He  steps  down  quickly,  hastens  to  his  friend,  cuts 


40  Dramatization  [second  Yor 

Jds  bonds,  and  motions  to  the  assembly  to  divide.     They 

form  a  semi-circle  as  at  first.     Then  he  leads  Hawkcye 

to  the  platform]     Father,  look  at  tliis  \ni\c  face,  a  just 

man,  and  the  friend  of  the  Delawares. 
Tamenuni).     What  name  has  he  seined  by  his  deeds? 
Uncas.     We  call  him  Hawkeye;  for  his  sight  never  fails. 

the  Mingoes  know  him  better  as  "The  Long  Rifle." 
Tamenund.     [Sfer7ily]  La  Longiie  Carabine!     My  son  hast 

not  done  well  to  call  him  friend. 
Uncas.     I  call  him  so  who  proves  himself  such ! 
Tamenund.     The  pale  face  has  slain  my  young  men;  his 

name  is  great  for  the  blows  he  has  struck  the  Lenape. 
Hawkeye.     If  a  Mingo  has  whispered  that  much  in  the 

ear  of  the  Delaware,  he  has  only  shown  that  he  is  a 

singing-bird.     That  I  have  slain  the  Maquas  I  am  not  the 

man  to  deny,  even  at  their  own  council-fires;  but  that, 

knowingly,  my  hand  has  ever  harmed  a  Delaware,  is 

opposed  to  the  reason  of  my  gifts,  which  is  friendl}^  to 

them,  and  all  that  belongs  to  their  nation. 

Low  murmurs  of  applause  are  heard  among  the  warriors. 
Tamenund.     Where  is  the  Huron?     Has  he  stopped  my 

ears  ? 
Magua.     [Coming  forward]     The  just  Tamenund  will  not 

keep  what  a  Huron  has  lent. 
Tamenund.     [Turning    to    Uncas]     Tell    me,    son    of    my 

brother,  has  the  stranger  a  conqueror's  right  over  you? 
Uncas.     He  has  none.     The  panther  may  get  into  snares 

set  by  the  women;  but  he  is  strong,  and  knows  how  to 

leap  through  them. 
Tamenund.     La  Longue  Carabine? 
Uncas.     Laughs  at  the  Mingoes! 
Tamenund.     The  stranger  and  the  white  maiden  that  came 

into  my  camp  together? 
Uncas.     Should  journey  on  an  open  path. 


Second  Year]  Tkc    Lcist    of   tllC    MoJllCaUS  41 

Tamenuxd.     And  the  woman  that  the  Huron  left  with  my 

warriors?     [Uncas   bows  his  head   sadly,    and   is   silent. 

Tamenund   repeats]     And    the   woman    that   the  Mingo 

has  brought  into  my  camp? 
Magua.     [Shaking  his  hand  triumphantly  at  Uncas]      She 

is  mine,  Mohican,  you  know  that  she  is  mine! 
Tamenund.     [Trying  to  look  into  the  youth's  averted  face] 

My  son  is  silent! 
Uncas.     [Sorrowfidly]     It  is  so! 
Tamenund.     Huron,  depart  with  what  is  thine  own. 

Magna  advances  and  seizes  Cora  by  the  arm.     Alice 

reaches  out  her  arms  toward  her  sister,  then  staggers,  faint 

with  grief,  and  is  supported  by  Heyward. 
Heyward.     Hold,  hold!  —  Huron,  have  mercy!     Her  ran- 
som shall  make  thee  rich! 
Magua.     Magua  is  a  redskin;  he  wants  not  the  beads  of 

the  pale  faces. 
Hawkeye.  Gold — silver — powder — lead!  All  that  becomes 

the  greatest  chief  shall  be  yours ! 
Magua.     Le  Subtil  is  very  strong.     [Taking  hold  of  Cora's 

arm  roughly]     He  has  his  revenge. 
Heyward.     To  you,  just  Tamenund,  I  appeal  for  mercy. 
Tamenund.     The  words  of  the  Delaware  are  said.     Men 

speak  not  twice! 
Hawkeye.     Huron,   you  love  me  not.     Take  me  in  the 

maiden's  place. 
Magua.     [Shaking  his  head  and  motioning  impatiently  for 

the  crowd  to  open  a  way  for  him]     No,  no!     This  is  my 

revenge!     Only  one  of  the  blood  of  Munro  can  j^ay  for 

the  stripes  I  carry  on  my  back. 
Hawkeye.     My  life! 
Magua.     Le  Renard  Subtil  is  a  great  chief;  he  has  but  one 

mind.     [To  Cora]     Come! 

She  turns  toward  Alice,  but  the  Huron  drags  her  forward. 


42  Dramatization  [second  Tear 

Heyward.  [Placing  Alice  in  the  arms  of  an  Indian  girl] 
Ay,  go!  Go,  Magua,  go!  These  Delawares  have  their 
laws,  which  forbid  them  to  detain  you;  but  I — I  have  no 
such  obhgation.     Go,  malignant — why  do  you  delay? 

Magua.  [With  an  expression  of  triumph  folloved  qv.icldy 
by  a  look  of  cunning]  The  woods  are  open;  "The 
Open  Hand"  may  come. 

Hawkeye.  [Seizing  Hejjivard  by  the  arm  and  detaining  him 
by  force]  Hold!  You  know  not  the  craft  of  the  imp. 
He  would  lead  you  to  an  ambushmcnt  and  your  death — 

Uncas.  Huron,  the  justice  of  the  Delawares  comes  from  the 
Manitou.  Look  at  the  sun.  He  is  now  in  the  upper 
branches  of  the  hemlock.  Your  path  is  short  and  open. 
When  he  is  seen  above  the  trees,  there  will  be  men  on 
your  trail. 

Magua.  [With  a  taunting  laugh]  I  hear  a  crow!  Go!  [Shak- 
ing his  fist  at  the  crowd  ichich  has  slowly  opened  to  admit 
his  passage]  Where  are  the  petticoats  of  the  Delawares ! 
Let  them  send  their  arrows  and  their  guns  to  the  Wyan- 
dots;  they  shall  have  venison  to  eat,  and  corn  to  hoe. 
Dogs,  rabbits,  thieves — I  spit  on  you ! 

Cora  gives  a  despairing  look  toward  the  fainting  Alice, 
as  she  is  dragged  away  by  Magua. 
Curtain 

Second  Interlude 
Spirit  of  the  Mohicans 
Silent  stood  the  young  Mohican, 
.    As  the  cruel  Huron  left  them, 
Followed  by  his  sad-eyed  captive, 
Till  the  forest  closed  about  him! 
Then  the  agile-footed  Uncas 
Woke  the  nation's  slumbering  passion; 
Led  the  war-dance  of  the  nation; 


Second  Year]      The  Lttst  of  the  MohicuHs  4^ 

Raised  the  well-known  shout  of  battle! 
And  they  gathered  at  the  war-cry. 
Following  their  youthful  leader. 
Chingachgook  was  not  far  distant, 
And  the  maiden's  aged  father 
Bore  his  share  in  that  day's  conflict. 

But  with  foe  so  unrelenting, 
Maddened  by  the  thirst  for  bloodshed. 
Was  there  any  hope  of  rescue 
For  the  maid  in  Huron's  power? 

Fierce  the  fight  and  sad  the  ending: 
Slain  the  dark-eyed,  pale-face  daughter! 
Slain  the  hope  of  Chingachgook! 
Magua's  vengeful  shout  of  triumph, 
Soon  the  faithful  Hawkeye  silenced  — 
Gone  the  reptile-hearted  Magua! 
But  the  gentle,  dark-eyed  daughter 
And  the  agile-footed  Uncas 
Leave  their  fathers  broken-hearted ! 
Sad-faced  maidens  gently  bore  her 
To  her  grave  among  the  strangers; 
And  the  last  sad  rites  are  over 
For  the  Sagamore's  brave  son. — 

Now  above  the  solemn  music. 
And  the  mourning  of  the  nation, 
Hearken  to  the  measured  marching. 
Hearken  to  the  tread  of  soldiers ! 
They  have  come,  who  long  have  tarried  — 
Tardy  escort!  —  Ah,  the  suffering. 
Laggard  Frenchman,  thou  hast  cost  them! 

Silent  as  the  mists  of  morning, 
View  with  me  the  scene  of  parting: 
Sagamore  and  pale-face  warrior, 
Brothers  now  through  sorrows  borne! 


44  Dramatization  r  second  Year 


Dramati 

zation 

Scene 

HI 

The  Parting 

Mimro. 

Heyward. 

Alice. 

Haivkeye. 

Tamenun 

Characters : 

David  Gamut. 
Montcalm,'s  Aide. 
Guide. 

Chingachgook. 
d.                  The  Delaivares. 

For  the  setting  of  this  scene,  the  platform  and  seats  used 
in  scene  ii  are  removed.  The  stage  represents  a  clearing  in 
the  forest,  not  far  from  the  graves  of  Cora  and  Uncas.  In  the 
background,  as  the  curtain  rises,  the  Delaivare  chiefs,  women, 
and  youths  are  already  assembled.  To  the  left,  Montcalm's 
Aide,  and  his  Guide,  appear,  loaiting  for  Munro's  returti. 
Strains  of  weird  Indian  music  chanted  by  the  Delaware 
maidens  are  heard.  From  the  right  enter:  first,  the  maidens, 
who  join  the  other  Delaivares,  but  continue  the  chanting  in 
subdued  tones  until  the  dialogue  begins;  then,  Munro,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  Hawkey e,  followed  by  four  Indian  youths 
bearing  a  rude  litter  on  which  Alice  lies;  Heyward  walks  by  her 
side,  and  David  Gamut  closes  the  procession.  As  Munro 
and  Hawkey e  reach  the  center  of  the  stage,  the  Indian  youths  rest 
their  burden  near  the  entrance,  in  such  a  position  as  to  complete 
an  effective  stage  picture.  At  this  moment,  unseen  by  Munro, 
who  stands  with  bowed  head,  Montcalm's  Aide  approaches  and 
salutes.  Haivkeye  touches  Munro  on  the  shoulder  and 
whispers  in  his  ear.  Munro  instinctively  returns  the  salute. 
Munro.  [With  forced  calm]  I  understand  you,  sir.  I 
understand  you. — It  is  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  I  sub- 
mit. [Raising  his  eyes  as  if  in  prayer]  Cora,  my  child ! 
If  the  prayers  of  a  heartbroken  father  could  avail  thee 
now,  how  blessed  shouldst  thou  be! — Come,  gentlemen. 


Second  Yerr]  Tlw    LttSt    of   tlw    MohicailS  45 

[Controlling  his  grief  icith  an  effort]  Our  duty  here  is 
ended;  let  us  depart.  [He  goes  to  the  side  of  the  litter, 
looks  down  upon  his  daughter  a  moment,  then  turns  to 
shake  the  hand  of  Haickeye  in  faretcell]  Good  friend,  you 
have  done  me  and  mine,  noble  service.  A  broken- 
hearted father  thanks  you — Come,  gentlemen ! 

The  Indian  youths  take  up  the  litter  at  a  signal  from 
II ey  ward,  who  then  grasps  the  hand  of  Hawkey e  and  mores 
slowly  on.  Hawkeye  folloivs  in  the  rear  of  the  procession 
as  it  passes  from  the  stage  at  the  left.  As  they  disappear  he 
turns  to  join  the  Delaivares.  At  the  same  moment,  Chingach- 
gook  appears  on  the  opposite  side,  bowed  with  grief,  but 
suddenly  lifts  his  head,  as  if  by  a  supreme  effort,  and 
addresses  the  mourning  chiefs  in  a  voice  at  first  weak  and 
trembling,  but  growing  stronger  as  he  proceeds. 

Citing ACiiGOOK.  Why  do  my  brothers  mourn?  Why  do 
my  daughters  weep?  That  a  young  man  has  gone  to 
the  happy  hunting-grounds!  That  a  chief  has  filled  his 
time  with  honor!  He  was  good;  he  was  dutiful;  he  was 
brave.  Who  can  deny  it?  The  Manitou  had  need  of 
such  a  warrior,  and  he  has  called  him  away.  As  for  me, 
the  son  and  the  father  of  Uncas,  I  am  a  blazed  pine  in 
a  clearing  of  the  pale  faces.  My  race  has  gone  from  the 
shores  of  the  salt  lake,  and  the  hills  of  the  Delawares. 
But  who  can  say  that  the  Serpent  of  his  tribe  has  for- 
gotten his  wisdom?     I  am  alone  — 

Hawkeye.  [Approaching]  No,  no!  No,  sagamore,  not 
alone.  The  gifts  of  our  colors  may  be  different,  but 
God  has  so  placed  us  as  to  journey  in  the  same  path. 
I  have  no  kin,  and  I  may  also  say,  like  you,  no  people. 
He  was  your  son,  and  a  redskin  by  nature;  and  it  may 
be  that  your  blood  was  nearer  —  l)ut  if  I  ever  forget 
the  lad  who  has  so  often  fought  at  my  side  in  war,  and 
slept  at  my  side  in  i)cace,  may  He  who  made  us  all, 


46  Dramatization 


[Second  Tear 


whatever  may  be  our  color  or  our  gifts,  forget  me! 
The  boy  has  left  us  for  a  time;  but,  sagamore,  you  are 
not   alone! 

Chingachgook  grasps  the  hand  of  the  Scout.  The  two 
friends  stand  for  a  moment  icith  boived  heads.  Quietly, 
the  Dclairares  in  the  background  divide,  and  Tamenund 
appears,  leaning,  as  before,  on  the  arms  of  his  two  com- 
panions. With  hands  raised  as  if  in  blessing,  in  a  clear 
voice  he  addresses  his  people. 
Tamenuxd.  It  is  enough.  Go,  children  of  the  Lenape. 
The  anger  of  the  Manitou  is  not  done.  Why  should 
Tamenund  stay?  The  pale  faces  are  masters  of  the 
earth,  and  the  time  of  the  red  men  has  not  yet  come 
again.  My  day  has  been  too  long.  In  the  morning  I 
saw  the  sons  of  Unamis  happy  and  strong;  and  yet, 
before  the  night  has  come,  have  I  lived  to  see  the  last 
warrior  of  the  wise  race  of  the  Mohicans. 
Curtain 

Epilogue 
Spirit  of  the  Mohicans 

Last  of  all  the  brave  Mohicans, 
Chingachgook  in  sorrow  lingers  — 
But  the  aged,  "pale  face"  warrior 
Is  at  rest  among  his  kindred  — 
And  the  blue-eyed  daughter  wedded 
To  the  gallant  Duncan  Heyward. 
Earth-bound  still,  I  follow  after, 
\Yhere  the  noble  Chieftain  loiters. 
Loiters  by  the  grave  of  Uncas. 
In  the  forest  wildernesses. — 
Silently  I  follow  after, 
Follow^  Chingachgook,  the  mighty. 
Last  of  all  the  brave  Mohicans. 


Second  Year]  A     Tcih    of    TlCO    CitieS  47 

A  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 

Charles  Dickens 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  following  situations  from  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities  have  been  chosen 
for  dramatization,  as  they  suggest  the  plot  of  the  story  and  offer  good 
studies  in  character  interpretation: 

The  Honest  Tradesman  at  Home,  Book  II,  chap.  i. 

Knitting,  Book  II,  chap.  xv. 

Still  Knitting,  Book  II,  chap.  xvi. 

The  Knitting  Done,  Book  III,  chap.  xiv. 

The  only  deviation  of  note  from  the  original  in  the  first  scene  is  the 
introduction  of  some  of  the  conversation  that  occurs  between  Mr. 
Cruncher  and  his  son  Jerry  later  on  in  chap.  xiv.  In  the  three  scenes 
that  follow.  Knitting,  Still  Knitting,  and  The  Knitting  Done,  Madame 
Defarge  is  the  central  figure  and  the  progress  of  her  knitting  —  the  regis- 
ter she  makes  of  those  doomed  to  fall  at  the  hands  of  the  Revolutionists 
—  marks  the  progress  of  the  plot  of  the  story.  The  three  together 
form  an  interesting  dramatic  unit.  In  dramatizing  these  selections 
few  changes  are  necessary.  The  dialogue  of  the  novel  is  used  practically 
as  it  stands  with  occasional  abridgment.  Change  of  scene  is  avoided 
by  having  the  entire  action  take  place  in  the  first  instance.  Knitting, 
within  the  wine  shop,  instead  of  partly  there  and  partly  in  Dr.  Manette's 
old  room  over  the  shop.  In  the  next  scene.  Still  Knitting,  the  events 
of  the  evening  and  the  next  day  are  represented  as  occurring  at  the 
same  time.  In  the  last  scene.  The  Knitting  Done,  both  setting  and  time 
are  kept  as  in  the  original. 

The  Honest  Tradesman  at  Home 

Characters: 
Mr.  Cnincher. 
Mrs.  Cruncher. 
Young  Jerry. 

The  setting  of  this  scene  is  changed  .'ilighth)  from  that 
given  in  the  story.  The  stage  should  present  a  room  in 
Mr.   Cruncher's  home, — bedroom,   kitchen,   dining-room,   in 


48  Dramatization  [second  Year 

one.  A  couch  with  tumbled  blantels,  indicating  that  some 
one  has  just  arisen;  a  table  covered  with  a  scrupulously  clean 
cloth,  and  set  for  breakfast;  and  various  pots  and  pans  stand- 
ing on  a  shelf  in  the  background  to  suggest  the  kitchen,  make 
up  the  stage  furniture.  A  curtain  cutting  off  a  portion  of  the 
room  is  supposed  to  conceal  a  stove.  In  a  rather  conspicuous 
position  stand  dirty  boots,  a  rusty  shovel  and  pickaxe,  and 
Jerry's  wooden  stool.  Mr.  Cruncher  and  his  son  are  dis- 
covered finishing  their  toilets,  instead  of  in  bed,  as  in  the 
original.     Mrs.  Cruncher  is  kneeling  in  one  corner  of  the  room . 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Aside]  Bust  me,  if  she  ain't  at  it  agin! 
Mrs.  Cruncher  rises  and  sets  about  placing  dishes  on 
the  breakfast  table. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [To  Mrs.  Cruncher]  What!  You're  at 
it  again,  are  you? 

Mrs.  Cruncher.  [Meekly]  I'm  sure  I'm  not  doing  any- 
thing, Jerry. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  I  say  you  are.  What  are  you  up  to, 
Aggerawayter? 

Mrs.  Cruncher.     I  was  only  saying  my  prayers. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  Saying  your  prayers!  You're  a  nice 
woman !  What  do  you  mean  by  flopping  yourself  down 
and  praying  agin  me? 

Mrs.  Cruncher.  I  was  not  praying  against  you;  I  was 
praying  for  you. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  You  weren  't.  And  if  you  were,  I  won 't 
be  took  the  liberty  with.  [To  Young  Jerry]  Here! 
your  mother's  a  nice  woman,  young  Jerry,  going  a-pray- 
ing  agin  your  father's  prosperity.  You've  got  a  dutiful 
mother,  you  have,  my  son.  You've  got  a  religious 
mother,  you  have,  my  boy — going  and  flopping  herself 
down,  and  praying  that  the  bread-and-butter  may  be 
snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of  her  only  child. 


S:condYearj  A     Tttle    of    TwO    CltieS  49 

Young  Jerry,     [Whining.     He  has  been  slowly  putting  on 

his  jacket,  and  tying  his  tie,  while  listening  to  his  father] 

Yes,   I've   got   a  dutiful   mother,   I've   got   a   religious 

mother,  and  she  keeps  flopping  and  praying  that  my 

bread-and-butter  may  be  snatched  out  of  my   mouth. 

x\nd  me  her  only  child,  too! 
Mr.  Cruncher.     Y''oung  Jerry,  my  boy,  keep  a  eye  upon 

your  mother  now,  while  I  clean  my  boots,  and  if  j^ou  see 

any  signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a  call. 
Young  Jerry.     All  right,  father. 

Mr.  Cruncher  takes  his  boots  off  to  one  side  and  begins 

to  brush  them  vigorously,  talking  as   he   irorks,  to  Mrs. 

Cruncher. 
Mr.  Cruncher.     And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited 

female,  that  the  worth  of  your  prayers  may  be?     Name 

the  price  that  you  put  your  prayers  at ! 
Mrs.    Cruncher.     [Who   is   busily   putting    the  finishing 

touches  to  the  breakfast]     They  only  come  from  the  heart, 

Jerry.     They  are  worth  no  more  than  that. 
Mr.  Cruncher.     Worth  no  more  than  that!     They  ain't 

worth  much,  then.     Whether  or  no,  I  won't  be  prayed 

agin,  I  tell  you.     I  can't  afford  it — ■ 
Young  Jerry.     [As  he  sees  his  mother  stoop  to  pick  up  a 

a  knife  which  she  had  dropped]     You're  going   to   flop, 

mother. —  Halloa,  father! 
Mr.  Cruncher.     [Still  rubbing  a  boot,  steps  up  to  his  wife] 

If  you  must  go  flopping  yourself  down,  flop  in  favor  of 

your  husband  and  child,  and  not  in  opposition  to  'em. 
Mrs.  Cruncher.     I'm  always  in  favor  of  my  husband  and 

child. — Come  now  to  breakfast. 

They  all  three  sit  down.     Mrs.  Cruncher  bends  silently 

over  her  plate  for  a  second. 
Mr.  Cruncher.     Now,  Aggerawayter!     What  arc  you  up 

to?     At  it  agin? 


50  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Mrs.  Cruncher.     I  was  only  asking  a  blessing. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  Don't  do  it!  I  ain't  a  going  to  be 
blest  out  of  house  and  home.  I  won't  have  my  wittles 
blest  off  my  table.     Keep  still! 

Mrs.  Cruncher  silently  yours  tea,  passes  if,  arid  serves 
the  rest  of  the  meal.     Mr.  Cruncher  continues  talking. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  If  I  had  had  any  but  a  unnat'ral  wife, 
and  this  poor  boy  had  had  any  but  a  unnat'ral  mother, 
I  might  have  made  some  money  last  week,  instead  of 
being  counter-prayed  and  counter-ruined  and  religiously 
circumwented  into  the  worst  of  luck. 

Young  Jerry.  Yes,  mother,  he  might  have  made  some 
money  last  week  if  you  hadn't  always  been  a-flopping. 

Mrs.  Cruncher.     O,  Jerry,  my  boy.     You  too! 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Addressing  his  loife]  I  tell  you,  I  won't 
be  gone  agin  in  this  manner.  I  am  as  rickety  as  a  hack- 
ney-coach, I'm  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is 
strained  to  that  degree  that  I  shouldn't  know,  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  pain  in  'em  which  was  me  and  which 
somebody  else,  yet  I'm  none  the  better  for  it  in  pocket; 
and  it 's  my  suspicion  that  you  've  been  at  it  from  morn- 
ing to  night  to  prevent  me  from  being  the  better  for 
it  in  pocketi  and  I  won't  put  up  with  it,  Aggerawaj'ter, 
and  what  do  you  say  now ! 

Mrs.  Cruncher.     I  try  to  be  a  good  wife,  Jerry. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  Is  it  being  a  good  wife  to  oppose  your 
husband's  business?  Is  it  honoring  your  husband  to 
dishonor  his  business?  Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to 
disobey  him  on  the  wital  subject  of  his  business? 

Mrs.  Cruncher.  You  hadn't  taken  to  the  dreadful  busi- 
ness W'hen  I  married  you,  Jerry. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  It's  enough  for  you,  to  be  the  wife  of  a 
honest  tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy  your  female  mind 
with  calculations  when  he  took  to  his  trade  or  when  he 


Second  Year]  A  TaU  of  Two  Cities  5\ 

didn  't.  A  honoring  and  obeying  wife  would  let  his  trade 
alone  altogether.  Call  yourself  a  religious  woman?  If 
you're  a  religious  woman,  give  me  a  irreligious  one! 
You  have  no  more  nat'ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed 
of  this  here  Thames  River  has  of  a  pile,  and  similarly 
it  must  be  knocked  into  you. 

As  he  finishes,  he  rises  and  goes  over  to  continue  cleaning 
on  his  boots. 

Mrs.  Cruncher.  Jerry,  go  and  help  your  father  clean 
his  boots. 

Young  Jerry.     All  right,  mother. 

Young  Jerry  does  as  he  is  bid.     Mrs.  Cruncher  busies 
herself  clearing  the  table. 

Mr.  Cruncher.     Here,  Jerry,  hurry  and  clean  this  boot! 

Young  Jerry.  [Taking  up  the  boot  and  beginning  to  work] 
Father,  what's  a  Resurrection-Man? 

Mr.  Cruncher.     How  should  I  know? 

Young  Jerry.  [Artlessly]  I  thought  you  knowed  every- 
thing, father. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Somewhat  appeased]  Hem!  Well,  he's 
a  tradesman. 

Young  Jerry.     [Briskly]     What's  his  goods,  father? 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Thoughtfully]  His  goods  is  a  branch  of 
Scientific  goods. 

Young  Jerry.  [Brightly]  Persons'  bodies,  ain't  it, 
father? 

Mr.  Cruncher.     I  believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort. 

Young  Jerry.  [With  enthusiasm]  Oh,  father,  I  should 
so  like  to  be  a  Resurrection-Man  when  I'm  quite  growed 
up! 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Dubiously]  It  depends  upon  how  you 
dewelop  your  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  your  tal- 
ents, and  never  to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to 
nobody,  and  there's  no  telling  at  the  present  time  what 


.52  Dramatization  r  second  I'ear 

you  may  not  come  to  be  fit  for.  [lie  takes  off  his  slip- 
pers and  draivs  cm  his  boots. —  To  his  vdfe]  And  now 
I'm  going,  Mrs.  Cruncher.  No  flopping,  remember! 
[To  Young  Jerry]  Keep  a  eye  on  her,  young  Jerry.  No 
flopping  remember !  [Aside,  as  Young  Jerry  goes  to  fetch  his 
father's  hat  and  stool]  Jerry,  you  honest  tradesman, 
there's  hopes  wot  that  boy  will  yet  be  a  blessing  to  you, 
and  a  recompense  to  you  for  his  mother! 

Young  Jerry  hands  his  father  his  hat  and  stool,  and 
accompanies  him  to  the  door. 
Young  Jerry.  Good  bye,  father.  [Exit  Mr.  Cruncher. 
Young  Jerry  comes  hack  slowly,  goes  up  to  the  tools  and 
takes  them  up.  —  Meditatively]  Al-ways  rusty!  His 
fingers  is  al-ways  rusty!  Where  does  my  father  get  all 
that  iron  rust  from?     He  don't  get  no  iron  rust  here! 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Cruncher  has  retired  to  her  corner 
where  she  has  again  ''^flopped.''' 
Curtain 

Knitting 

Characters : 

Mme.  Defarge.  Jacques  Tico. 

Jacques  One.  Jacques  Three. 

M.  Defarge,  Jacques  Four. 
The  Mender  of  Roads,  Jacques  Five. 
Three  Other  Men. 

The  scene  represents  the  interior  of  Monsieur  Defarge's 
wine  shop.  At  the  rear  (right)  is  a  counter  on  which  are 
bottles,  glasses,  etc.  Behind  the  counter  are  curtains,  seem- 
ingly hiding  tvindows.  At  the  rear  (left)  is  a  door,  leading 
to  the  street.  A  door  ivhich  leads  to  another  room  is  represented 
at  one  side  (right).  Several  small  tables  are  disposed  about 
the  room.     Mme.  Defarge  sits  at  the  counter  industriously 


Second  Year]  A    Tttlc    of    TwO    CiticS  53 

knitting.  Six  men  are  grouped  at  two  of  the  small  tables, 
drinldng  and  smoking.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Defarge  and  the 
Mender  of  Roads,  travel-stained,  enter,  and  all  the  men  look  at 
them,  though  no  one  rises  or  speaks. 

Defarge.     Good  day,  gentlemen! 

Men.     Good  day! 

Defarge.     [Shaking  his  head]   It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen. 
The  men  look  at  each  other  and  remain  silent.      One 
man  gets  up  and  goes  sloioly  out. 

Defarge.  [After  greeting  his  wife,  uho  has  risen  and 
approached  him,  as  he  motions  the  Mender  of  Roads 
to  a  seat  at  one  of  the  tables  and  seats  himself  beside  him] 
My  wife,  I  have  traveled  certain  leagues  with  this  good 
Mender  of  Roads,  called  Jacques.  I  met  him — by  acci- 
dent—  a  day  and  a  half's  journey  out  of  Paris.  He  is  a 
good  child,  this  Mender  of  Roads,  called  Jacques.  Give 
him  to  drink,  my  wife! 

A  second  man  gets  up,  and  goes  out.  Mme.  Defarge 
fetches  wine  from  the  counter  and  sets  it  before  the  Mender  of 
Roads  and  Defarge.  The  Mender  of  Roads  doffs  his  blue 
cap  to  the  company  and  drinks.  From  the  breast  of  his 
blouse  he  takes  some  coarse  dark  bread  ichich  he  begins  to 
eat.  A  third  man  gets  up,  and  goes  out.  Defarge  rises, 
goes  to  the  door  and  bolts  it. 

Defarge.  [To  his  wife]  Draw  the  curtains,  my  wife. 
No  one  must  come  in  for  an  hour  or  so. 

Mme,  Defarge,     Very  well,  my  husband. 

She  draws  the  curtains,  then  takes  a  seat  at  a  small  table 
near  the  front  of  the  stage  and  is  absorbed  in  her  knitting. 

Defarge,  [7*0  the  men]  Come,  now,  my  men,  Jacques 
One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three!  This  is  the  witness 
encountered  by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques  Four. 
He  will  tell  you  all.     Speak,  Jacques  Five! 


54  Dramatization  rsecondvear 

The  men  rise,  bring  their  chairs  and  form  a  circle  about 
the  Mender  of  Roads  7vho  is  still  eating  and  drinking. 

Defarge.     Have  you  finished  your  repast,  friend? 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  Yes,  Monsieur.  [He  lakes  his 
blue  cap  and  wipes  his  swarthy  forehead  with  it\  Where 
shall  I  commence,  Monsieur? 

Defarge.     Commence  at  the  commencement. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  I  saw  him  then,  messieurs,  a 
year  ago  this  running  summer,  underneath  the  carriage 
of  the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain.  Behold  the 
manner  of  it.  I,  leaving  my  work  on  the  road,  the  sun 
going  to  bed,  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis  slowly  ascend- 
ing the  hill,  he  hanging  by  the  chain — like  this. 

He  stands  up,  turns  himself  sideways  to  the  table,  leans 
hack,  with  his  face  thrown  up  to  the  sky,  and  his  head 
thrown  back.  Then  he  slowly  recovers  himself  and  sits 
down  again. 

Jacques  One.     Had  you  ever  seen  the  man  before? 

The  Mender  of  Roads.     Never. 

Jacques  Three.  How  did  you  afterwards  recognize  him, 
then? 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  [Softly]  By  his  tall  figure.  When 
Monsieur  the  Marquis  demands  that  evening,  "Say, 
what  is  he  like?"     I  make  response,  "Tall  as   a  specter." 

Jacques  Two.     You  should  have  said,  short  as  a  dwarf. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  [Dramatically]  But  what  did 
I  know?  The  deed  was  not  then  accomplished,  neither 
did  he  confide  in  me.  Observe!  Under  those  circum- 
stances even,  I  do  not  offer  my  testimony.  Monsieur 
the  Marquis  indicates  me  with  his  finger,  standing  near 
our  little  fountain,  and  says,  "To  me!  Bring  that 
rascal!"     My  faith,  messieurs,  I  offer  nothing. 

Defarge.  [To  Jacques  Tico]  He  is  right  there,  Jacques. 
Go  on! 


Second  Year]  A     Tttlc    of    TwO    CltieS  55 

The  Mender  OF  Roads.  [Mysteriously]  Good!  The  tall 
maji  is  lost,  and  he  is  sought — how  many  months? 
Nine,  ten,  eleven? 

Defarge.  No  matter,  the  number.  lie  is  well  hidden, 
but  at  last  he  is  unluckily  found.     Go  on! 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  [Rising]  I  am  again  at  work 
upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun  is  again  al>out  to  go  to 
bed.  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming  over  the  hill  six 
soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a  tall  man  with  his 
arms  bound^ — tied  to  his  sides  —  like  this!  [ImUcaiing 
U'ith  his  arms]  I  stand  aside,  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of 
stones,  to  see  the  soldiers  and  their  prisoner  pass,  and 
at  first,  as  they  approach,  I  see  no  more  than  that  they 
are  six  soldiers  with  a  tall  man  bound,  and  that  they 
are  almost  black  to  my  sight — except  on  the  side  of 
the  sun  going  to  bed,  where  they  have  a  red  edge,  mes- 
sieurs. Also,  I  see  that  \\\ey  are  covered  with  dust,  and 
that  the  dust  moves  with  them  as  they  come,  tramp, 
tramp!  But  when  they  advance  quite  near  to  me,  I 
recognize  the  tall  man,  and  he  recognizes  me.  Ah,  but 
he  would  be  well  content  to  precipitate  himself  over 
the  hill-side  once  again,  as  on  the  evening  when  he  and 
I  first  encountered,  close  to  the  same  s})ot! 

Defarge,  [Pouring  a  glass  of  wine  fur  the  Mender  of  Roads] 
Drink,  Jacques  Five — you  are  tired. 

The  INIendir  of  Roads.  [Coniinning  after  he  drains  the 
glass]  I  do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I  recognize  the 
tall  man;  he  does  not  show  the  soldiers  that  he  recog- 
nizes me;  we  do  it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes. 
"Come  on!"  says  the  chief  of  that  company,  pointing  to 
the  village,  "bring  him  fast  to  his  tomb!"  and  they  bring 
him  faster.  I  follow.  His  arms  are  swelled  because  of 
being  l)ound  so  tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are  large  and 
clumsy,  and  he  is  lame.     Because  he  is  lame,  and  con- 


50  Dramatizalion 


rSecond  Year 


sequently  slow,  they  drive  him  with  their  guns —  Hke 
this!  [Indicating  ike  motion;  then  he  sits  down,  rests  his 
head  on  his  hand,  and  continues  after  a  moment]  As 
they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a  race,  he 
falls.  They  laugh  and  pick  him  up  again.  His  face 
is  bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  cannot  toUch 
it;  thereupon  thej^  laugh  again.  They  bring  him  into 
the  village;  all  the  village  runs  to  look;  they  take  him 
past  the  mill,  and  up  to  the  prison;  all  the  village  sees 
the  prison  gates  open  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and 
swallow  him — like  this! 

He  opens  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  can  and  shuts  it  with 
a  soundiyig  snap  of  his  teeth,  and  remains  with  his  mouth 
firmly  closed  for  a  second  or  two. 

Defarge.     [Urgently]     Go  on,  Jacques. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  [Rising  and  standing  on  tiptoe] 
All  the  village  withdraws;  all  the  village  whispers  by 
the  fountain;  all  the  village  sleeps;  all  the  village  dreams 
of  that  unhappy  one.  In  the  morning,  with  my  tools 
upon  my  shoulders,  eating  my  morsel  of  black  bread  as 
I  go,  I  make  a  circuit  by  the  prison,  on  my  way  to  my 
work.  There,  I  see  him  high  up,  behind  the  bars  of  a 
lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dusty  as  last  night,  looking 
through.  He  has  no  hand  free,  to  wave  to  me;  I  dare 
not  call  to  him;  he  regards  me  like  a  dead  man. 

Defarge  and  the  three  glance  darkly  at  one  another. 
Jacques  One  and  Two  sit,  with  chins  resting  on  hands, 
and  eyes  intent  on  the  road  mender;  Jacques  Three,  equally 
intent,  nervously  smooths  his  chin;  Defarge  sits  between 
them  and  the  narrator,  by  turns  looking  from  him  to  them, 
and  from  them  to  him. 

Defarge.     Go  on,  Jacques. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron 
cage  some  days.     The  village  looks  at  him  by  stealth. 


Second  Year]  A   Tale  of  Two  CiHes  51 

for  it  is  afraid.  But  it  always  looks  up,  from  a  distance, 
at  the  {)rison  on  the  crag;  and  in  the  evening,  when  the 
work  of  the  day  is  achieved,  and  it  assembles  to  gossip 
at  the  fountain,  all  faces  are  turned  toward  the  prison. 
They  whisper  at  the  fountain,  that  although  condemned 
to  death  he  will  not  be  executed ;  they  say  that  petitions 
have  been  presented  in  Paris,  showing  that  he  was  en- 
raged and  made  mad  by  the  death  of  his  child;  they 
say  that  a  petition  has  been  presented  to  the  King  him- 
self. What  do  I  know?  It  is  possible.  Perhaps  yes, 
perhaps  no. 

Jacques  One.  [Sternly  interposing]  Listen  then,  Jacques. 
[The  Mender  of  Roads  sits  down  agai7i]  Know  that  a 
petition  was  presented  to  the  King  and  Queen.  All 
here,  yourself  excepted,  saw  the  King  take  it,  in  his 
carriage  in  the  street,  sitting  beside  the  Queen.  It  is 
Dcfarge  whom  you  see  here,  who,  at  the  hazard  of 
his  life,  darted  out  before  the  horses,  with  the  petition 
in  his  hand. 

Jacques  Three.  [Nervously  rubbing  his  chin]  And  once 
again  listen,  Jacques !  The  guard,  horse  and  foot,  sur- 
rounded the  petitioner,  and  struck  him  blows.  You 
hear? 

The  Mender  of  Roads.     I  hear,  messieurs. 

Defarge.     Go  on,  then. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  Again;  on  the  other  hand,  they 
whisper  at  the  fountain,  that  he  is  brought  down  into 
our  country  to  be  executed  on  the  spot,  and  that  he 
will  very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper 
that  because  he  has  slain  Monseigneur,  and  because 
Monseigneur  was  the  father  of  his  tenants — serfs  — 
what  you  will — he  will  be  executed  as  a  parricide.  One 
old  man  says  at  the  fountain,  that  his  right  hand,  armed 
with  the  knife,  will  be  burnt  off  before  his  face,  that — 


58  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Dkfarge.     [With  impatience]     Enough!     Go  on. 

The  Mendek  of  Roads.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night 
when  all  tlie  village  is  asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding 
down  from  the  |)ri.son,  and  their  guns  ring  on  the  .stones 
of  the  little  street.  Workmen  dig,  workmen  hammer, 
soldiers  laugh  and  sing;  in  the  morning,  by  the  fountain, 
there  is  raised  a  gallows  forty  feet  high,  poisoning  the 
water.  [He  points  tip  toward  the  sky  and  rises]  All  work 
is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads  the  cows  out, 
the  cows  are  there  with  the  rest.  At  midday,  the  roll  of 
drums.  Soldiers  have  marched  into  the  prison  in  the 
night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  soldiers.  He  is 
bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a  gag — tied 
so,  with  a  tight  string,  making  him  look  almost  as  if  he 
laughed.  He  is  hanged  there  forty  feet  high  —  and  is 
left  hanging,  poisoning  the  water.  [He  icipes  his  face 
jvith  his  cap  again;  then  continues]  It  is  frightful,  mes- 
sieurs. How  can  the  women  and  the  children  draw  water ! 
Who  can  gossip  of  an  evening,  under  that  shadow! 

Jacques  Two.     Frightful  indeed.     You  speak  true. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  That's  all,  messieurs.  I  left  at 
sunset  (as  I  had  been  warned  to  do),  and  I  walked  on, 
that  night  and  half  next  day,  until  I  met  (as  I  was 
warned  I  should)  this  comrade.  With  him,  I  came  on, 
now  riding  and  now  walking,  through  the  rest  of  yes- 
terday and  through  last  night.  And  here  j^ou  see  me! 
He  seats  himself,  exhausted  after  his  thrilling  narrative. 
There  is  a  short  silence. 

Jacques  One.  Good.  You  have  acted  and  recounted 
faithfully.  Will  you  wait  for  us  a  little,  in  another 
room  ? 

Defarge.  [Pouring  wine  for  him]  First,  some  more  wine. 
Drink,  Jacques. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.     Willingly. 


Second  Year]  A     Tcile    of    TwO    CltieS  59 

Defarge.  [To  Mme.  Defarge]  My  wife,  show  Janques  to 
another  room. 

Mme.  Defarge.     Very  well,  my  husband. 

She  rises  and  goes  over  to  f fie  Mender  of  Roads,  who  gets 
up  and  starts  to  follow  her.  The  men  whisper  together 
7vhile  Mme.  Defarge  and  the  Mender  of  Roads  are  talking. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.  [Pointing  aiokwardbj  to  her  knit- 
ting]    You  work  hard,  madame. 

Mme.  Defarge.     Yes,  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.     What  do  you  make,  Madame? 

Mme.  Defarge.     Many  things. 

The  Mender  of  Roads.     For  instance  — 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Just  before  the  door  closes  on  them,  com- 
posedly]    For  instance — shrouds. 

Jacques  One.  How  say  you,  Jacques  Four?  To  be  regis- 
tered? 

Defarge.     To  be  registered  as  doomed  to  destruction. 

Jacques  Three.     Magnificent! 

Jacques  One.     The  chateau  and  all  the  race? 

Defarge.     The  chateau  and  all  the  race.     Extermination. 

Jacques  Two.  Are  you  sure  that  no  embarrassment  can 
arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping  the  register?  Without 
doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one  beyond  ourselves  can 
decipher  it;  but  shall  we  always  be  able  to  decipher  it — 
or,  I  ought  to  say,  will  she? 

Defarge.  [Drawing  himself  up  proudly]  Jacques,  if 
madame  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  the  register  in  her 
memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a  word  of  it  —  not  a 
syllable  of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches  and  her  own 
synil)ols,  it  will  always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the  sun.  Con- 
fide in  Madame  Defarge.  It  would  be  easier  for  the 
weakest  poltroon  that  lives,  to  erase  himself  from 
existence,  than  to  erase  one  letter  of  his  name  or  crimes 
from  the  knitted  register  of  Madame  Defarge. 


60  Dramatization  [second  Tear 

A  murmur  of  applause  comes  from  the  men.     As  Defarge 

finishes,  the  door  to  the  other  room  is  opened,  and  Mme. 

Defarge  re-enters,  silently  takes  her  seat  once  more,  and 

resumes  her  knitting. 
Jacques  One.     Extermination  then  to  one  and  all! 
Jacques  Two.     Death  to  the  race! 
Jacques  Three.     Their  doom  is  sealed! 
Defakge.     [Rising  and  going  over  to  his  wife]     My  wife, 

they  are  to  be  registered — the  chateau  and  all  the  race. 
Mme.  Defarge.     [Composedly  knitting  on]     ]\Iy  husband, 

they  are  registered — the  chateau  and  all  the  race. 
Curtain 

Still  Knitting 

Characters : 
31.  Defarge. 
Mme.  Defarge. 
John  Barsad. 

The  scene  represented  is  the  interior  of  the  wine  shop. 
Mme.  Defarge,  industriously  knitting,  sits  at  one  side 
well  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  but  so  placed  that  she  can  see  her 
husband,  who  stands  behind  the  counter,  busily  iviping  glasses. 

Mme.  Defarge.     Say  then,  my  friend;  what  did  Jacques 

of  the  police  tell  thee? 
Defarge.     Very  little  tonight,  but  all  he  knows.     There 

is   another  spy  commissioned  for  our  quarter.     There 

may  be  many  more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  knows 

of  one. 
Mme.  Defarge.      Eh,  well!      [Raisi7ig  her    eyebrows  tcith 

a  cool  business  air]     It  is  necessary  to  register  him.     How 

do  they  call  that  man? 
Defarge.     He  is  English. 
Mme.  Defarge.     So  much  the  better.     His  name? 


Second  Year]  A     Tttlc    of    TwO    CiticS  61 

Defarge.     Barsad.     [Malcing  it  French  by  pronunciation; 

then  spelling  it\  B-a-r-s-a-d. 
Mme.  Defarge.     Barsad.     Good.     Christian  name? 
Defarge.     John. 
MiME.   Defarge.     Jolin  Barsad.     Good.     His  appearance; 

is  it  known.'^ 
Defarge.     Age,  about  forty  years;  height,  about  five  feet 

nine;   black   hair;   complexion   dark;    generally,    rather 

handsome  visage;  eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow; 

nose    aquiline,    but    not    straight,    having    a    i)eculiar 

inclination   toward   the  left  cheek;  expression,  therefore, 

sinister. 
Mme.    Defarge.     [Laughing]      Eh,    my    faith.      It    is    a 

portrait!     He  shall  be  registered. 

Defarge  comes  from  behind  the  counter,  and  seats  himself 

by  his  wife,  heaving  a  long  sigh  as  he  does  so. 
Mme.  Defarge.     You  are  fatigued,  I  see. 
Defarge.     I  am  a  little  tired. 
Mme.  Defarge.     You  are  a  little  depressed.     Oh,   the 

men,  the  men! 
'Defarge.  ■   But,  my  dear  — 
Mme.  Defarge.     [Repeating  and  nodding  firmly]     But,  my 

dear!     But,  my  dear!     You  are  faint  of  heart  tonight, 

my  dear! 
Defarge.     Well  then,  it  is  a  long  time. 
Mme.  Defarge.      It  is   a  long  time,  and  when  is  it  not 

a  long  time?     Vengeance  and  retribution  require  a  long 

time;  it  is  the  rule. 
Defarge.     It  does  not  take  a  long  time  to  strike  a  man 

with  lightning. 
Mme.  Defarge.     [Composedly]     How  long  does  it  take  to 

make  and  store  the  lightning?     Tell  me. 
Defarge.     [Raising  his  head   thoughtfully]     AVell,    there's 

something  in  that,  too. 


Gi2  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Mme.  DEFAii(;K.  It  docs  not  take  a  long  time  for  an 
earthquake  to  swallow  a  town.  Eh,  well!  Tell  mc  how 
long  it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake? 

Defahcjk.     a  long  time,  I  supi)osc. 

Mme.  Defarge.  But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place, 
and  grinds  to  pieces  everything  before  it.  In  the  mean- 
time, it  is  always  preparing,  though  it  is  not  seen  or 
heard.  That  is  your  consolation.  Keep  it.  [She  ties 
a  knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  throttling  a  foe]  I  tell  thee 
that  although  it  is  a  long  time  on  the  road,  it  is  on  the 
road  and  coming.  I  tell  thee  it  never  retreats,  and  never 
stops.  I  tell  thee  it  is  always  advancing.  Look  around 
and  consider  the  lives  of  all  the  world  that  we  know, 
consider  the  faces  of  all  the  \vorld  w^e  know^  consider  the 
rage  and  discontent  to  which  the  Jacquerie  addresses 
itself  wath  more  and  more  of  certainty  every  hour.  Can 
such  things  last?     Bah!     I  mock  you. 

Defarge.  [Rising  and  standing  before  her  with  his  head 
a  little  bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at  his  back]  My  brave 
wife  I  do  not  question  all  this.  But  it  has  lasted  a  long 
time,  and  it  is  possible — you  know  w  ell,  my  wife,  it  is 
possible  that  it  may  not  come  during  our  lives. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Tying  another  knot  as  if  it  were  another 
enemy  strangled]     Eh,  well,  how  then? 

Defarge.  [With  a  half  complaining  and  half  apologetic 
shrug]     Well!     We  shall  not  see  the  triumph! 

Mme.  Defarge.  We  shall  have  helped  it.  Nothing  that 
we  do  is  done  in  vain.  I  believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that  we 
shall  see  the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I  knew 
certainly  not,  show  me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and 
tyrant,  and  still  I  would — [With  her  teeth  set,  she  ties  a 
very  terrible  knot  indeed.] 

Defarge.  [Somewhat  embarrassed]  Hold!  I  too,  my  dear, 
will  stop  at  nothing. 


Second  Year]  A     Tulc    of    TlVO    CitU'S  63 

Mme.  Defarge.  Yes!  But  it  is  your  weakness  that 
you  sometimes  need  to  see  your  victim  and  your  oppor- 
tunity, to  sustain  you.  Sustain  yourself  without  that. 
When  the  time  comes,  let  loose  a  tiger  .and  a  devil;  but 
wait  for  the  time  with  the  tiger  and  the  devil  chained — 
not  shown — yet  always  ready.  [She  rises  and  goes  be- 
hind the  counter  where  she  examines  the  bottles]  Now, 
go  fetch  a  jug  of  wine  from  the  cellar.  The  bottles  are 
all  empty,  I  see. 

Defarge  leaves.     Just  after  the  door  closes  on  him,  a 
stranger  {Bar sad)  enters.     He  steps  up  to  the  counter. 

Barsad.  Good  day,  madame.  Have  the  goodness  to 
give  me  a  little  glass  of  old  cognac,  and  a  mouthful  of 
cool  fresh  water,  madame. 

Mme.    Defarge   pours   a   glass   of   cognac    vJtich    she 
hands  to  him  ivifh  the  glass  of  ivater,  as  requested. 

Barsad.  [lifter  drinking  at  one  swallow]  Marvelous  cog- 
nac this,  madame!  Another  glass,  please.  [He  walks 
over  to  a  table  and  seats  himself] 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Takes  it  to  him,  resumes  her  seat,  and 
is  soon  busjly  knitting  again]     You  flatter  the  cognac. 

Barsad.  [Watching  her  fingers  fly  back  and  forth]  You  knit 
with  great  skill,  madame. 

Madame  Defarge.     I  am  accustomed  to  it. 

Barsad.     A  pretty  pattern,  too. 

Mme.  Defarge.    [Smiling  at  him  quizzically]    You  think  so.' 

Barsad.     Decidedly.     May  one  ask  what  it  is  for? 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Still  smiling  at  him  while  her  fingers 
move  nimbly]     Pastime. 

Barsad.     Not  for  use? 

Mme.  DEFAUfiE.  [Nodding  her  head  with  a  stern  kind  of 
coquetry]  That  depends.  I  may  find  use  for  it  one  day. 
If  I  do— well,  I'll  use  it. 

Barsad  settles  back  in  his  chair  and  busies  himself  with 


64  Dramatization  [second  Year 

his  pipe,  preparing  to  nmoke.  Mine.  Defarge  rises  and 
goes  to  a  table  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room  from  which  she 
takes  more  wool. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Aside,  as  she  stands  sorting  the  wool] 
John.  Stay  long  enough  and  I  shall  knit  Barsad. 
[She  walks  back  to  her  seat\ 

Barsad.  [Between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe]  You  have  a  hus- 
band, madame. 

Mme.  Defarge.     I  have. 

Barsad.     Children? 

Mme.  Defarge.     No  children. 

Barsad.     Business  seems  bad? 

Mme.  Defarge.  Business  is  very  bad;  the  people  are 
so  poor. 

Barsad.  Ah,  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people!  So 
oppressed,  too — as  you  say. 

Mme.  Defarge.     [Correcting  him]     As  you  say. 

Barsad.  Pardon  me;  certainly  it  was  I  who  said  so,  but 
you  naturally  think  so.     Of  course. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [In  a  high  voice]  I  think?  I  and  my 
husband  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine  shop  open 
without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here,  is  how  to  live. 
That  is  the  subject  ive  think  of,  and  it  gives  us,  from 
morning  to  night,  enough  to  think  about,  without  em- 
barrassing our  heads  concerning  others.  /  think  for 
others?     No,  no. 

Barsad.  [With  a  sigh  of  a  great  compassion]  A  bad  busi- 
ness this,  madame,  of  Gaspard's  execution.  Ah!  the 
poor  Gaspard! 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Coolly  and  lightly]  My  faith!  If 
people  use  knives  for  such  purposes,  they  have  to  pay 
for  it.  He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of  his  luxury 
was;  he  has  paid  the  price. 

Barsad.     [Confidentially]     I  believe  there  is  much  com- 


Second  Year]  A     Tttlc    of    TwO    CUieS  65 

passion  and  anger  in  this  neighborhood,  touching  the 
poor  fellow?     Between  ourselves. 

Mme.  Defarge.     [Vacantly]     Is  there? 

Barsad.     Is  there  not? 

The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  is  heard. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Turni7ig  her  head  toward  the  door] 
Here  is  my  husband. 

Defarge  enters,  bringing  with  him  two  jugs  of  wine. 
The  stranger  salutes  him  by  touching  his  hat.  Mme. 
Defarge  rises,  puts  down  her  knitting  for  a  moment,  takes 
the  jugs  from  her  husband,  and  places  them  on  the  counter. 
Defarge  nods  back  at  the  stranger,  then  takes  a  seat  at  the 
table  with  him.  Mme.  Defarge  pours  two  glasses  of  the 
wine,  and  places  them  on  the  table  before  the  two  men. 
Then  she  resumes  her  seat  and  her  knitting. 

Barsad.     [To  Defarge]     Good  day,  Jacques! 

Defarge.  [With  a  slight  start,  but  quickly  recovering  him- 
self] You  deceive  yourself,  monsieur.  You  mistake  me 
for  another.    That  is  not  my  name.    I  am  Ernest  Defarge. 

Barsad.  [Airily,  but  discomfited]  It  is  all  the  same. 
Good  day! 

Defarge.     [Dryly]     Good  day! 

Barsad.  I  was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  chatting  when  you  entered,  that  they  tell  me 
there  is — and  no  wonder! — much  sympathy  and  anger 
in  Saint  Antoine,  touching  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor 
Gaspard. 

Defarge.  [Shaking  his  head]  No  one  has  told  me  so.  I 
know  nothing  of  it.  [He  empties  his  glass,  rises,  goes 
over  to  his  wife,  and  stations  himself  behind  her  chair] 
You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well;  that  is  to  say, 
better  than  I  do. 

Barsad.  Not  at  all,  but  I  hope  to  know  it  better.  I  am 
so  profoundly   interested  in   its   miserable   inhabitants. 


Qo  Dramatization 


[Second  Year 


Another  glass  of  cognac,  madame,  if  you  please.  [Mme. 
Dejarge  goes  to  the  counter,  pours  out  the  cognac,  carries 
it  to  him,  and  then  takes  up  her  knitting,  humming 
a  little  song  as  her  fingers  fly  nimbly  at  their  work]  The 
pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  Defarge, 
recalls  to  me,  that  I  have  the  honor  of  cherishing  some 
interesting  associations  with  your  name. 

Defarge.     [Indifferently]     Indeed? 

Barsad.  Yes,  indeed.  When  Doctor  Manette  was 
released,  his  old  domestic  had  the  charge  of  him,  I 
know.  He  was  delivered  to  you.  You  see  I  am  informed 
of  the  circumstances? 

Mme.  Defarge  drops  her  knitting.  Her  husband  stoops 
to  pick  it  up  for  her.  As  he  hands  it  to  her,  they 
exchange  significant  glances.  Then  he  proceeds  to  answer 
the  stranger,  evidently  ivith  the  approval  of  his  icife. 

Defarge.     Such  is  the  fact  certainly. 

Barsad.  It  was  to  you  that  his  daughter  came;  and  it 
w^as  from  your  care  that  his  daughter  took  him,  accom- 
panied by  a  neat  brown  monsieur;  how  is  he  called? — 
in  a  little  wig — Lorry — of  the  bank  of  Tellson  and 
Company  — over  to  England. 

Defarge.     Such  is  the  fact. 

Barsad.  Very  interesting  remembrances!  I  have  known 
Doctor  Manette  and  his  daughter,  in  England. 

Defarge.     Yes? 

Barsad.     You  don't  hear  much  about  them  now? 

Defarge.     No. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Looking  up  from  her  work  and  stop- 
ping her  little  song]  In  effect  we  never  hear  about  them. 
We  received  the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  perhaps 
another  letter,  or  perhaps  two;  but,  since  then,  they  have 
gradually  taken  their  road  in  life — we  ours — and  w^e 
have  held  no  correspondence. 


Second  Year]  A   Tale  of  Two  CUies  67 

Barsad.   Perfectly  so,  madamc. — She  is  going  to  be  married. 

Mme.  Defarge.  Going?  Shewasprettycnough  tohave  been 
married  long  ago.     You  English  are  cold,  it  seems  to  me. 

Barsad.  [Lcuighing  a  little  disconcertedly]  Oh!  You  know 
I  am  English? 

Mme.  Defarge.  I  perceive  your  tongue  is,  and  what  the 
tongue  is,  I  suppose  the  man  is. 

Barsad.  Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But 
not  to  an  Englishman ;  to  one  who,  like  herself,  is  French 
by  birth.  And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor  Gaspard!  It 
was  cruel,  cruel!),  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  she  is  going 
to  marry  the  nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for  whom 
Gaspard  was  exalted  to  that  height  of  so  many  feet;  in 
other  words,  the  present  Marquis.  But  he  lives  unknown 
in  England,  he  is  no  Marquis  there;  he  is  ,Mr.  Charles 
Darnay.  D'Aulnais  is  the  name  of  his  mother's  family. 
During  the  narration  Mme.  Defarge  knits  steadily 
on,  unmoved,  but  Defarge,  irho  has,  in  the  meantime,  retired 
behind  the  counter,  and  is  engaged  in  iciping  glasses, 
is  perceptibly  agitated,  as  is  evident  from  the  dropping  of 
a  glass  or  two,  etc. 

Baksad.  [Continuing,  as  he  rises  and  goes  over  to  the  coun- 
ter] AVell,  I  must  say  good  bye.  I  hope  soon  to  have  the 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  monsieur  and  madame  again.  [He 
pays  his  bill,  and  departs] 

For  a  few  seconds  Mme.  Defarge  and  her  husband 
remain  exactly  as  he  left  them,  for  fear  he  may  come  back. 
Presently,  however,  Defarge  comes  from  behind  the  counter, 
goes  up  to  his  wife,  places  his  hand  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  and  looks  down  in  her  face. 

Defarge.  [In  a  hoarse  whisper]  Can  it  be  true,  what  he 
has  said  of  Ma'amsclle  ^Nlanette? 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Lifting  her  eyebroivs]  As  he  has  said  it, 
it  is  probably  false.     But  it  may  be  true. 


68  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Defarge.     If  it  is — 

Mme.  Defarge.     If  it  is? 

Defarge.  And  if  it  does  come,  while  Ave  live  to  see  it 
triumph — I  hope,  for  her  sake,  Destiny  will  keep  her 
husband  out  of  France. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [With  great  composure]  Her  husband's 
destiny  will  take  him  where  he  is  to  go,  and  will  lead 
him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him.     That  is  all  I  know. 

Defarge.  [Rather  pleadingly  to  his  wife]  But  it  is  very 
strange — now  at  least  is  it  not  very  strange — that,  after 
all  our  sympathy  for  Monsieur  her  father,  and  herself, 
her  husband's  name  should  be  proscribed  under  your 
hand  at  this  moment,  by  the  side  of  that  infernal  dog's 
who  has  just  left  us? 

Mme.  Defarge.  Stranger  things  than  that  will  happen 
when  it  does  come.  I  have  them  both  here  (tapping  her 
hiiiting)  of  a  certainty;  and  they  are  both  here  for  their 
merits;  that  is  enough.  [She  rises  and  slowly  rolls  up  her 
■  knitting]  And  now,  this  register  is  finished.  I  must  go 
prepare  for  a  new  one.     Keep  shop  till  I  return.     [Exit] 

Defarge.     [Stands    gazing    after    her.     Finally    he    turris 
around,  goes  behind  the  counter, and  busies  himself  once  more 
with  the  glasses,  as  he  soliloquizes]   A  great  woman,  a  strong 
woman,  a  grand  woman,  a  frightfully  grand  woman ! 
Curtain 

The  Knitting  Done 

Characters : 
Miss  Pross. 
Mme.  Defarge. 
Mr.  Cruncher. 

The  scene  presents  a  meagerly  furnished  lodging.  A 
stand  on  which  are  a  basin  of  water  and  other  toilet  articles, 
a  rude  couch,  and  tico  or  three  chairs  make  up  the  furniture. 


Second  Year]  A     TttU    of    TlVO    CitieS  69 

At  the  left,  a  door  which  leads  to  another  room,  stands  open. 
At  the  right,  a  window  is  represented.  In  the  rear,  is  the  door 
by  ichich  Mr.  Cruncher  departs  and  Mine.  Defarge  enters. 
As  the  curtain  rises.  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher, —  now  a 
totally  different  man  from  the  Mr.  Cruncher  of  the  previous 
scene,  neatly  dressed  and  respectful  in  manner, —  are  discovered 
making  preparations  for  flight  from  the  city.  A  traveling 
basket  is  half  packed;  3Iiss  Pross' s  bonnet  and  shawl  are 
throivn  across  the  couch. 

Miss  Pross.  [In  great  excitement]  Now  what  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Cruncher,  what  do  you  think  of  our  not 
starting  from  this  court-yard?  Another  carriage  having 
already  gone  from  here  today,  it  might  awaken  sus- 
picion. 

Mr.  CRU^X'HER.  [Humbly]  My  opinion,  miss,  is  as 
you're  right.  Likewise  wot  I'll  stand  by  you,  right 
or  wrong. 

Miss  Pross.  [Almost  beside  herself]  I  am  so  distracted 
with  fear  and  hope  for  our  precious  creatures,  that  I  am 
incapable  of  forming  any  plan.  Are  you  capable  of 
forming  any  plan,  my  dear,  good  Mr.  Cruncher? 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Meekly]  Respectin'  a  future  spear  o' 
life,  miss,  I  hope  so.  Respectin'  any  present  use  of 
this  here  blessed  old  head  o'  mine,  I  think  not.  Would 
you  do  me  the  favor,  miss,  to  take  notice  o'  two  prom- 
ises and  wows  wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this 
here  crisis? 

Miss  Pross.  [More  agitated  than  ever]  Oh,  for  gracious 
sake!  record  them  at  once,  and  get  them  out  of  the 
way,  like  an  excellent  man. 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Solemnly]  First,  them  poor  things  well 
out  o'  this,  never  no  more  will  I  do  it,  never  no  more! 

Miss  Pross.     I  am  (piite  sure,   Mr.   Cruncher,  that  you 


70  Dramatization  [second  Year 

never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is,  and  I  beg  you  not  to 
tl)ink  it  necessary  to  mention  more  particularly  what  itis. 

Mr.  Ckunc'IIER.     [Still  more  gravely]     No,  miss,  it  shall  not 
be  named  to  you.     Second:  them  poor  things  well  out  o' 
this,    and   never   no   more   will   I   interfere   with    Mrs. 
Cruncher's  flopping,  never  no  more! 

Miss  Pross.  [Striving  to  compose  herself]  Whatever  house- 
keejiing  arrangement  that  may  be,  I  have  no  doubt  it 
is  best  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  should  have  it  entirely  under 
her  own  superintendence.  —  Oh,  my  poor  darlings! 

Mr.  Cruncher.  I  go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  morehover — 
and  let  my  words  be  took  down  and  took  to  Mrs.  Crun- 
cher through  yourself — that  wot  my  opinions  respectin' 
flopping  has  undergone  a  change,  and  that  wot  I  only 
hope  with  all  my  heart  as  Mrs.  Cruncher  may  be  a 
flopping  at  the  present  time. 

Miss  Pross.  There,  there,  there!  I  hope  she  is,  my  dear 
man,  and  I  hope  she  finds  it  answering  her  expectations, 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [More  solemnly  and  deliberately]  Forbid 
it,  as  anything  wot  I  have  ever  said  or  done  should 
be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes  for  them  poor  creeturs 
now!  Forbid  it  as  we  shouldn't  all  flop  (if  it  was  any- 
ways conwenient)  to  get  'em  out  of  this  here  dismal  risk ! 
Forbid  it,  miss!     Wot  I  say,  for — bid  it! 

Miss  Pross.  If  ever  we  get  back  to  our  native  land,  you 
may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher  as  much  as  I 
may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand  of  what  you 
have  so  impressively  said;  and  at  all  events  j^ou  may 
be  sure  that  I  shall  bear  witness  to  your  being  thoroughly 
in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  time.  Now,  pray  let  us  think! 
My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher,  let  us  think!  [She  pauses] 
If  you  were  to  go  before,  and  stop  the  vehicle  and 
horses  from  coming  here,  and  were  to  wait  somewhere 
for  me;  wouldn't  that  be  best? 


Second  Year]  A     Tide    of    TwO    CiticS  71 

Mr.  Cruxcher.     Yes,  miss,  that  would  be  best,  I'm  sure. 

Miss  Pross.     Where  could  you  wait  for  me? 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Hesitatingly]  Why,  miss,  there's  Tem- 
ple Bar — 

Miss  Pross.  No,  no,  Mr.  Cruncher!  By  the  cathedral 
door.  Would  it  be  much  out  of  the  way,  to  take  me 
in,  near  the  great  cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers? 

Mr.  Cruncher.     No,  miss,  certainly  not,  miss. 

Miss  Pross.  Then,  like  the  best  of  men,  go  to  the  posting- 
house  straight,  and  make  that  change. 

]\Ir.  Cruncher.  [Hesitating  and  shaking  his  head]  I  am 
doubtful  about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  W^e  don't  know 
what  may  happen. 

Miss  Pross.  [Entreatinghj]  Heaven  knows  we  don't,  Ijut 
have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  in  at  the  cathedral,  at 
three  o'clock  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I  am  sure  it 
will  be  better  than  our  going  from  here.  I  feel  certain 
of  it.  There!  Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher!  Think — not 
of  me,  but  of  the  lives  that  may  depend  on  both  of  us! 

Mr.  Cruncher.  [Nodding  acquiescence]  Xery  well,  miss, 
I  "11  go.     Good  bye,  for  now,  miss. 

Mr.  Cruncher  goes  out,  leaving  the  door  slightly  ajar. 
Miss  Pross  glances  arcund  nervously  after  he  is  gone. 
Then  she  looks  at  her  watch,  goes  over  to  the  washstand, 
bathes  her  eyes,  frequently  pausing  and  looking  around. 
Mine.  Defarge  enters  silently  while  she  is  drying  her  face. 
As  Miss  Pross  looks  up,  she  utters  a  scream,  for  she  sees 
Mme.  Defarge  standing  before  her. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Looking  at  her  coldly]  The  wife  of 
Evremonde;  where  is  she?  [Miss  Pross  does  not  speak, 
but  hastily  goes  to  the  door  of  Lucie\'i  chamber,  which  is 
open,  closes  it,  and  places  herself  before  it.  Mme.  Defarge 
motions  toward  the  street]  On  my  way  yonder,  where 
they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me,  I  am  come 


72  Dramatization  [second  Year 

to  make  my  compliments  to  her  in  passing.  I  wish  to 
see  her.      [Motioning  toward  Lucie  s  room] 

Miss  Pross.  I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,  and 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  I'll  hold  my  own  against  them. 

Mme.  Defarge.  It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  herself 
concealed  from  me  at  this  moment.  Good  patriots  will 
know  what  that  means.  Let  me  see  her.  Go  tell  her 
that  I  wish  to  see  her.     Do  you  hear? 

Miss  Pross.  [Shaking  her  head  firmly]  Why  shouldn't  I 
hear?  My  ears  are  good  enough.  But  if  those  eyes  of 
yours  were  bed-winches,  and  I  was  an  English  four- 
poster,  they  shouldn't  loose  a  splinter  of  me.  No,  you 
wicked  foreign  woman;  I  am  your  match. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Froivning]  Woman  imbecile  and  pig- 
like! I  take  no  answer  from  you.  I  demand  to  see 
her.  I^ither  tell  her  that  I  demand  to  see  her,  or  stand 
out  of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go  to  her! 
[Angrily  waving  her  arm,  she  advances  a  step,  still 
keeping  her  eyes  riveted  on  Miss  Pross]  Ha,  ha! 
[Laughing  scornfully]  You  poor  wretch!  What  are 
you  worth! 

Miss  Pross.  [Defiantly]  You  don't  know  me.  I  am  a  Briton. 
I  am  desperate.  I  don't  care  an  English  Twopence  for 
myself.  It  is  only  of  my  Ladybird  I'm  thinking.  I'll 
not  leave  a  handful  of  that  dark  hair  upon  your  head, 
if  you  lay  a  finger  on  me! 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Scornfully]  Coward!  I  address  myself 
to  the  Doctor.  [Raising  her  voice]  Citizen  Doctor! 
Wife  of  Evremonde!  Child  of  Evremonde!  Any  person 
but  this  miserable  fool,  answer  the  Citizeness  Defarge! 
[After  an  ominous  silence,  suddenly  becoming  suspicious] 
There  is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you !     Let  me  look. 

Miss  Pross.     [Firmly]     Never! 

Mme.   Defarge.     If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are 


Second  Year]  A   Tale  of  Two  Cities  73 

gone,  and  can  be   pursued    and    brought    back.      [She 
walks  to  the  windoiv  and  looks  out] 

Miss  Pross.  [Aside]  As  long  as  you  don't  know  whether 
they  are  in  that  room  or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to 
do,  and  you  shall  not  know  that,  if  I  can  prevent  your 
knowing  it;  and  know  that,  or  not  know  that,  you  shall 
not  leave  here  while  I  can  hold  you. 

Mme.  Defarge.  [Turning  from  the  icindow  and  slowbj 
approaching  Miss  Pross]  I  have  been  in  the  streets  from 
the  first,  nothing  has  stopped  me,  I  will  tear  you  to  pieces, 
but  I  will  have  you  from  that  door. 

Miss  Pross.  We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a  high  house  in 
a  solitary  courtyard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and 
I  pray  for  bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every 
minute  you  are  here  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand  guineas 
to  my  darling.  [Mme.  Defarge  makes  a  sudden  dart  at 
the  door.  Miss  Pross  seizes  her  around  the  waist.  It  is 
in  vain  that  Mme.  Defarge  struggles  to  free  herself  from 
the  tenacious  grasp  of  Miss  Pross.  Suddenly  she  draws 
from  her  bosom  a  dagger.  Miss  Pross  tries  to  seize  it  and 
in  the  struggle  Mme.  Defarge  falls  to  the  floor  mortally 
wounded.  Miss  Pross  looks  wildly  at  her  victim  for  a 
second,  then  snatches  her  hoyinet  and  shawl  and  hurries 
from  the  room]  And  now  my  Ladybird  is  safe,  my  Lady- 
bird is  safe.  ' 
Curtain 


74  Dramatization  rsecondYear 


DAVID   SWAN:   A    FANTASY 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
PREFATORY  NOTE 
David  Swan  (Tivirc-Told  Tales)  presents  a  unique  type  for  dramatic 
treatment.  It  is  a  fantasy,  not  a  study  in  action.  David  Swan,  the 
.sleeping  boy,  is  the  center  of  interest,  and  arouses  in  the  various 
passers-by  feelings  and  thoughts  as  diverse  as  their  characters.  At 
the  end,  the  author's  refiections  are  given  in  an  Epilogue.  This 
dramatization  offers  an  opportunity  for  character  interpretation. 

Characters : 

David  Sivan.  Their  Servant. 

A  Middle-aged  Widoiv.  A  Pretty  Young  Girl. 

A  Tevi'perance  Lecturer.         First  Robber. 

An  Elderly  Merchant.  Second  Robber. 

His  Wife.  A  Youth. 

The  scene  is  out  of  doors.  In  the  foreground  is  a  -public  high- 
way; in  the  background,  woods;  at  the  left,  a  clump  of  trees 
under  which  David  Swan  lies  peacefully  sleeping,  his  head 
resting  on  a  bundle  of  clothes.  The  time  is  noon  of  a  summer^ s 
day.  As  the  curtain  rises  the  Middle-aged  Widow,  carrying 
a  basket,  enters  (right),  and  walks  sloicly  down  the  highway, 
until  she  discovers  the  sleeping  boy.  Then  she  stops,  and 
steps  aside  to  look  at  him. 

The  Widow.  How  charming  the  young  fellow  looks  in 
his  sleep !  He  is  tired  out  with  his  long  walk,  doubtless, 
and  needs  this  slumber.  He  is  as  innocent  as  a  babe. 
Sleep  on,  dear  boy,  sleep  on ! 

She  walks  off  the  stage  (left)  as  the  Temperance  Lecturer 
enters,  tracts  in  hand  (right). 

The  Temperance  Lecturer.  [Stopping  as  he  discovers 
David]  Another  awful  instance  of  dead  drunkenness  by 
the  roadside!  And  such  a  comely  face,  too.  Some  poor 
mother  is  in  tears  over  this  wayward  lad,  and  some  poor 


Second  Year] 


David  Swan  15 


young  girl's  heart  is  nigh  to  breaking.  [Taking  out  hia 
note-hook]  One  more  case  of  youth  gone  astray  because 
of  cursed  liquor!     A  note  for  my  evening  lecture. 

Goes  out  {left)  as  the  Elderly  Merchant  and  his  Wife 
enter  (right)  talking. 

The  Merchant.  [To  his  Wife]  Let  us  rest  here,  beside 
the  road  while  John  mends  the  wheel  to  the  carriage.  A 
linch-{)in  has  fallen  out.  But  it  won't  take  him  long  to 
repair  the  damage.  [They  discover  David]  But  who  is 
here?  Only  a  young  lad  tired  out  with  his  long  journey. 
We  will  be  quiet  and  not  disturb  his  slumber. 

His  Wife.  [Sitting  down  in  the  shade  and  looking  at  David 
from  time  to  time  as  they  talk  almost  in  irhispers]  Dear 
lad!     Such  sleep  as  that  comes  only  to  a  clear  conscience! 

The  Merchant.  [Standing  beside  his  Wife  and  gazing  at  David] 
He  sleeps  soundly  indeed!  From  what  a  de]:)th  he  draws 
that  easy  breath!  Such  sleep  as  that, brought  on  without 
an  opiate,  would  be  worth  more  to  me  than  half  my  in- 
come ;  for  it  would  suppose  health  and  an  untroubled  mind . 

His  Wife.  And  youth,  besides.  Healthy  and  quiet  age 
does  not  sleep  thus.  Our  slumber  is  no  more  like  his, 
than  our  wakefulness. 

She  leans  over  David  and  smooths  a  lock  of  his  hair 
tenderly. 

The  Merchant.     Sh!     He  stirs!     Don't  wake  him,  dear. 

His  Wife.  [Dreamily]  No,  no,  I  won't.  Do  you  know, 
dear,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  Providence  had  laid  him  here, 
and  brought  us  hither  to  find  him,  after  our  disappoint- 
ment in  our  cousin's  son.  Methinks  I  can  see  a  likeness 
to  our  departed  Henry.     Shall  we  waken  him? 

The  Merchant.  [Hesitating]  To  what  purpose?  We 
know  nothing  of  the  youth's  character. 

His  Wife.  That  open  countenance !  This  innocent  sleep! 
[Persuasively]     Shall  we  not  waken  him,  dear? 


70  Dramatization  [seconaYoar 

The  Merchant.  Do  you  really  mean  it?  You  would 
share  our  home  with  him?  [Pau.nng]  No,  No,  the  risk 
is  too  great. 

His  Wife.    \Iiegreffulljj]   Perhaps  it  is  not  wise — But  yet. — 
Enter  Servant  (right). 

Their  Servant.     The  coach  is  ready,  sir. 
They  look  soineivhat  embarrassed. 

The  Merchant.  Very  well,  John.  [He  helps  his  Wife  to 
rise.     Then  they  hurry  off  (right)  in  evident  confusion] 

Enter  (right)  the  Pretty  Young  Girl,  a  basket  of  flowers  on 
her  arm.  She  trips  lightly  across  the  stage  singing,  but 
stops  suddenly  as  she  discovers  that  her  shoe  is  unlaced. 

The  Girl.  Oh,  dear,  I  nearly  tripped  over  that  shoe  lace! 
I  must  stop  and  tie  it.  [She  goes  to  the  shelter  of  the 
trees,  sets  the  basket  doicn,  and  starts  back  as  she  sees  the 
sleeper,  then  stops]  He  is  sound  asleep.  I'll  make  no 
noise.  [She  sits  doum  and  ties  her  shoe,  then  rises  and  gazes 
at  the  sleeper]  Oh,  how  handsome  he  is!  How  sound  he 
sleeps!  [She  takes  up  her  basket  and  drops  a  flower  at  his 
feet,  moves  sloivly  away  from  him,  looking  back  the  ivhile, 
and  finally  disappears  (left),  all  the  merriment  gone  out  of 
her  manner] 

Enter  from  the  rear  through  the  woods,  two  Robbers. 
They  stop  as  they  come  upon  David. 

First  Robber.  Hist! — Do  you  see  that  bundle  under 
his  head? 

Second  Robber.  [Nodding  and  leering  at  David]  I  should  say! 

First  Robber.  I'll  bet  you  a  horn  of  brandy  that  the 
chap  has  either  a  pocket-book,  or  a  snug  little  hoard  of 
small  change  stowed  away  amongst  his  shirts.  And  if 
not  there,  we  shall  find  it  in  his  pantaloons'  pocket. 

Second  Robber.     But  how  if  he  wakes? 

First  Robber.  [Thrusting  aside  his  waistcoat,  and  point- 
ing to  the  handle  of  a  dirk]     That 's  easy. 


Second  Year] 


David  Sivan  77 


Second  Robber.    So  be  it!    [They  approach  the  imconscious 
David.     One  points  the  dagger  toward  hi.s  heart,  irhile  the 
other  begins  to  search  the  bundle  beneath  his  head.     David 
slecp.'i  peacefidhj  on]     I  must  take  away  the  bundle. 
First  Robber.     If  he  stirs,  I'll  strike. 

Enter  (right)  a  Youth  gayly  singing. 
Second  Robber.     Pshaw!     "We  can  do  nothing  now. 
First  Robber.     Let's  take  a  drink  and  be  off. 

He  .thrusts  the  dagger  back  into  his  bosom,   draivs  a 
flask  from  his  pocket,  takes  a  driyik,  and  then  offers  it  to  his 
'companion.      'They  skulk   back  into  the   woods   and    dis- 
appear.    In  the  meantime  the  Youth  goes  off  the  stage  {left) 
without  discovering  David.      David   moves   in    his   sleep, 
throivs  up  his  arms,  yaivns,  and  gets  up  slowly. 
David.     Well,  I  feel  better  now.     That  hour's  sleep  did 
me  worlds  of  good.     [Slinging  his  pack  over  his  back,  he 
steps  toward  the  front  of  the  stage]     And  now  up  and  away 
to  Boston  town,  for  I  must  reach  there  before  sunset! 
He  goes  off  (right),  merrily  whistling. 
Curtain 
Epilogue 
Delivered  before  the  curtaiii: 

And  he  knew  not  that  a  phantom  of  ^Yealth  had 
thrown  a  golden  hue  upon  the  waters  of  his  life, — nor 
that  one  of  Love  had  sighed  softly  to  their  murmur, — 
nor  that  one  of  Death  had  threatened  to  crimson  them 
with  his  blood, — all,  in  the  brief  hour  since  he  lay  down 
to  sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking,  we  hear  not  the  airy 
footsteps  of  the  strange  things  that  almost  happen. 
Does  it  not  argue  a  superintending  Providence  that, 
while  viewless  and  unexpected  events  thrust  themselves 
continually  athwart  our  path,  there  should  still  be 
regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life,  to  render  foresight 
even  partially  available? 


78  Dramatization  r  second  Yem 

KIDNAPPED 

Kobert  Louis   Stevenson 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  episodes  selected  from  Kidnapped  are  designed  primarily  for 
classroom  presentation.  The  first  is  taken  from  chap.  iii.  For  Ebene- 
zer's  opening  question  and  David's  reply,  the  indirect  discourse  of  the 
text  is  changed  to  direct.  Then  the  action  and  dialogue  follow  the 
original  closely  as  far  as  David's  delivery  of  the  message  of  Jennet 
Clouston.  The  description  of  Jennet  in  this  speech  is  taken  from 
chap.  ii.  This  episode  and  the  second  from  chap,  vi  give  a  clear  insight 
into  the  character  of  David's  uncle.  At  the  close  of  the  dialogue,  in 
the  second  episode,  David's  thoughts  are  turned  into  a  short  soliloquy. 
The  third  and  fourth  episodes  from  chap,  xxiv  are  really  a  single  unit 
separated  into  two  scenes  in  order  to  make  the  journey  more  realistic 
and  to  account  for  the  change  in  David's  physical  condition. 

David's  First  Morning  at  the  House  of  Shaws 

Characters : 

David  Balfour. 
Ebenezer,  David's  Uncle. 

This  episode  may  be  given  in  the  classroom  as  a  dramatic 
reading,  or  ivith  a  very  simple  setting.  The  scene  is  the 
kitchen  of  the  House  of  Shaws,  meagerly  furnished.  The 
only  necessary  furniture  and  properties  are  a  bare  ivooden 
table  set  ivith  two  bowls,  two  spoons,  and  a  beer  mug,  two 
chairs,  and  a  cupboard.  The  conversation  begins  toward  the 
close  of  the  frugal  meal. 

Ebenezer.     Would  ye  like  a  drink  of  ale.' 
David.     I  am  used  to  it,  but  do  not  put  yourself  about, 
Uncle  Ebenezer! 


Second  Year]  Kidnapped  79 

Ebenezer.     Na,    na!     I'll   deny   you   nothing   in   reason. 

He  brings  another  mug,  and,  to  David's  surprise,  divides 

the  ale  in  half,  instead  of  bringing  more.     At  the  close  of  the 

meal,  Ebenezer  gets  out  a  clay  pipe  from  a  drawer,  fills  it,  and 

sits  near  the  ^vindow.     David  sits  on  a  stool  not  far  aivay. 

Ebenezer.     Your  mother — is  she  aHve? 

David.     She,  too,  is  dead. 

Ebenezer.  Ay,  she  was  a  bonnic  lassie! — Whae  were 
these  friends  of  yours? 

David.     Different  gentlemen  of  the  name  of  Campbell. 

Ebenezer.  [Thoughtfully]  Davie,  my  man,  ye've  come 
to  the  right  bit  when  ye  came  to  your  Uncle  Ebenezer. 
I've  a  great  notion  of  the  family,  and  I  mean  to  do  the 
right  by  you.  But  while  I'm  taking  a  })it  think  to 
myself  of  what's  the  best  thing  to  put  you  to — whether 
the  law  or  the  meenistry ,  or  maybe  the  arnn',  whilk  is  what 
boys  are  fondest  of— I  wouldnae  like  the  Balfours  to  be 
humbled  before  a  wheen  Hieland  Campbells,  and  I  '11  ask 
you  to  keep  your  tongue  within  your  teeth.  Nae  letters; 
nae  messages;  no  kind  of  word  to  onybody;  or  else — 
there's  my  door.     [Pointing  dramatically] 

David.  [Rising]  Uncle  Ebenezer,  I've  no  manner  of  reason 
to  suppose  you  mean  anything  but  well  by  me.  For 
all  that,  I  would  have  you  to  know  that  I  have  a  pride 
of  my  own.  It  was  by  no  will  of  mine  that  I  came 
seeking  you;  and  if  you  show  me  your  door  again,  I'll 
take  you  at  the  word. 

Ebeni-:zer.  Hoots-toots,  ca'  cannie  man  —  ca'  cannie! 
Bide  a  daj'  or  two.  I'm  nae  warlock  to  find  a  fortune 
for  you  in  the  bottom  of  the  parritch  bowl;  but  just  you 
give  me  a  day  or  two,  and  say  naething  to  naebody, 
and  as  sure  as  sure,  I'll  do  the  right  by  you. 

David.  [Seating  himself]  Very  well; enough  said.  If  you  want 
to  help  me,  there's  no  doubt  I'll  be  glad  of  it,  and  none  but 


80  Dramatization  [second  Year 

I'll  he  grateful.  [Rather  hem (jhiily]  But  I  must  have  my  bed 
aired  andput  to  sun-dry.  leannot.sleep  in  .such  a  })ed  again. 

Ebenezer.  [Beginning  wraihfully,  then  suddenly  changing] 
Is  this  my  house  or  yours?  Na,  na,  I  dinnae  mean  that. 
What's  mine  is  yours,  Davie  my  man,  and  what's  yours 
is  mine.  Blood  is  thicker  than  water;  and  there's  nae- 
body  but  you  and  me  that  ouglit  the  name. 

David.  [IVUh  a  start]  I've  a  message  for  you,  Uncle  Eben- 
ezer. I  almost  forgot.  On  the  way  hither,  I  met  a 
stout,  dark,  sour-looking  woman,  and  when  I  asked  her 
the  way  to  the  House  of  Shaws,  she  called  down  a  curse 
upon  the  place  and  bade  me — 

Ebenezer.  [Rising  in  iv rath]  Thelimmer!  A  witch!  A  pro- 
claimed witch!  I'll  aff  and  see  the  session  clerk.  [Tak- 
ing up  a  cloak  and  heaver  hat]  I  cannae  leave  you  by 
yourself  in  the  house,  David.     I'll  have  to  lock  you  out. 

David.  [Striding  toward  Ebenezer]  If  you  lock  me  out, 
it'll  be  the  last  you'll  see  of  me  in  friendship. 

Ebenezer.  [Avoiding  David's  eyes,  and  looking  at  the 
floor]     This  is  no  the  way  to  win  my  favor,  David. 

David.  Sir,  I  was  brought  up  to  have  a  good  conceit  of 
myself — I  wouldn't  buy  your  liking  at  such  a  price! 

Ebenezer.  [Looking  out  of  the  icindow — trembling  and 
twitching  like  a  man  with  palsy — then  turning  to  David 
with  a  forced,  cunning  smile]  Well,  well,  we  must  bear 
and  forbear.  [Seating  himself]  I'll  no  go;  that's  all 
that's  to  be  said  of  it. 

David.  Uncle  Ebenezer,  I  can  make  nothing  out  of  this. 
You  use  me  like  a  thief;  you  hate  to  have  me  in  this 
house;  you  let  me  see  it,  every  word  and  every  minute; 
it's  not  possible  that  you  can  like  me;  and  as  for  me, 
I've  spoken  to  you  as  I  never  thought  to  speak  to  any  man. 
Why  do  you  seek  to  keep  me,  then?  Let  me  gang  back — 
let  me  gang  back  to  the  friends  I  have,  and  that  like  me! 


Second  Year]  Kidnapped  81 

Ebenezer.  [Earnestly]  Na,  na,  I  like  ye  fine;  we'll  agree 
fine  yet;  and  for  the  honor  of  the  house  I  couldnae  let 
you  leave  the  way  ye  came.  Bide  here  quiet,  there's  a 
good  lad;  just  you  bide  here  quiet  a  bittie,  and  ye'U 
find  that  we  agree. 

David.      [Sitting  down  again]      Well,  sir,  I'll  stay  awhile. 
It's  more  just  I  should  be  helped  by  my  own  blood  than 
strangers;  and  if  we  don't  agree,  I'll  do  my  best  it  shall 
be  through  no  fault  of  mine. 
Curtain 

The  Revelation 

Characters : 

The  Landlord. 
David. 

The  scene  is  the  interior  oj  the  Inn  at  the  Queen  s  Ferry. 

David.     Do  you  know  Mr.  Rankeillor,  Landlord? 

Landlord.  Hoot,  ay,  and  a  very  honest  man.  And,  O, — 
by-the-bye,  was  it  you  that  came  in  with  Ebenezer? 

David.     Yes! 

Landlord.     Ye '11  be  no  relative  of  his? 

David.     [Cautiously]     No,  none. 

Landlord.  I  thought  not,  and  yet  ye  have  a  kind  of  gliff 
of  Mr.  Alexander. 

David.     Ebenezer  seems  ill-seen  in  the  country. 

Landlord.  Nae  doubt;  he's  a  wicked  auld  man,  and 
there's  many  would  like  to  see  him  girning  in  a  tow: 
Jennet  Clouston  and  mony  mair  that  he  has  harried  out 
of  house  and  hamc.  And  yet  he  was  ance  a  tine  young 
fellow,  too.  But  that  was  before  the  sough  gaed  abroad 
about  Mr.  Alexander;  that  was  like  the  death  of   him. 

David.     And  what  was  it? 


82  Dramatization  [second  Year 

Landlord.     Oh,   just   that   he   had   killed   him.     Did  ye 

never  hear  that? 
David.     And  what  would  he  kill  him  for? 
Landlord.     And  what  for,  but  just  to  get  the  place! 
David.     The  place?     The  Shaws? 
Landlord.     Nae  other  place  that  I  ken, 
David.     Ay,  man^ — -Is  that  so?     Was  my  —  was  Alexander 

the  eldest  son? 
Landlord.     Deed  was  he.     What  else  would  he  have  killed 

him  for? 

The  Landlord  goes  out.     David  sits  down  wrapped  in 
meditation. 
David.     I  guessed  it  a  long  while  ago.     {Straightening  ?//)] 

Am  I  the  same  poor  lad  who  trudged  in  the  dust  from 

Ettrick  Forest  not  ten  days  ago!     Why,  if  this  is  true, 

I'm  master  of  the  Shaws! 

David's   soliloquy   is   interrupted    by   Ebenezer's   voice 

calling — ''David!   David!'' 

Curtain 

The  Quarrel 

Characters: 
David. 
Alan. 

The  scene  is  on  the  heather.  David  and  Alan  are  walking 
together.  At  first  Alan  is  back  of  David.  Later  Alan  comes 
to  David's  side. 

Alan.  David,  this  is  no  way  for  two  friends  to  take  a  small 
accident.  I  have  to  say  that  I'm  sorry;  and  so  that's 
said.     And  now  if  you  have  anything,  ye'd  better  say  it. 

David.     O,  I  have  nothing. 

Alan.  [With  trembling  voice]  No, —  but  when  I  said  I 
was  to  blame? 


Second  Year]  Kldtiapped  83 

David.  [Coolly]  Why,  of  course  ye  were  to  blame;  and 
you  will  bear  me  out  that  I  have  never  reproached  you! 

Alan.  Never,  but  ye  ken  very  well  that  ye  've  done  worse. 
Are  we  to  part?  Ye  said  so  once  before.  Are  ye  to  say 
it  again?  There's  hills  and  heather  enough  between 
here  and  the  two  seas,  David;  and  I  will  own  I'm  no 
very  keen  to  stay  where  I'm  no  wanted. 

David.  [With  mixture  of  anger  and  shame]  AlanBreck! 
Do  you  think  I  am  one  to  turn  my  back  on  you  in  your 
chief  need?  You  dursn't  say  it  to  my  face.  My  whole 
conduct's  there  to  give  the  lie  to  it.  It's  true,  I  fell 
asleep  upon  the  muir;  but  that  was  from  weariness,  and 
you  do  wrong  to  cast  it  up  to  me  — 

Alan.     Which  is  what  I  never  did. 

David.  But  aside  from  that,  what  have  I  done  that  you 
should  even  me  to  dogs  by  such  a  supposition?  I  never 
yet  failed  a  friend,  and  it's  not  likely  I'll  begin  with  you. 
There  are  things  between  us  that  I  can  never  forget,  even 
if  you  can. 

Alan.  I  will  only  say  this  to  ye,  David,  that  I  have  long 
been  owing  ye  my  life,  and  now  I  owe  ye  money.  Ye 
should  try  to  make  that  burden  light  for  me. 

David.  [Venting  his  wrath  on  Alan]  You  asked  me  to  speak. 
Well,  then,  I  will.  You  own  yourself  that  you  have  done 
me  a  disservice;  I  have  had  to  swallow  an  affront:  I  have 
never  reproached  you,  I  never  named  tlie  thing  till  you 
did.  And  now  you  blame  me,  because  I  cannae  laugh  and 
sing  as  if  I  was  glad  to  be  affronted.  The  next  thing  will 
be  that  I'm  to  go  down  upon  my  knees  and  thank  you 
for  it!  Ye  should  think  more  of  others,  Alan  Breck. 
If  ye  thought  more  of  others,  ye  would  {)erhaps  s])eak 
less  about  yourself;  and  when  a  friend  that  liked  you 
very  well  has  passed  over  an  offense  without  a  word, 
you  would  be  blithe  to  let  it  lie,  instead  of  making  it  a 


84  Dramatization  [second  year 

stick  to  break  his  })ack  with.     By  your  own  way  of  it, 
it  was  you  that"  was  to  blame;  tlicn  it  shouldnae  be  you 
to  seek  the  quarrel. 
Alan.     Aweel,  Davie,  say  nae  mair! 

Curtaiti 

The  Reconciliation 

Characters : 
David. 
Alan. 

The  scene  is  the  same;  the  time,  a  little  later.     David  is 
almost  exhausted. 

Alan.  [Tauntingly]  Here's  a  dub  for  ye  to  jump,  my 
Whiggie!     I  ken  you're  a  fine  jumper! 

David.  [With  quivering  voice]  Mr.  Stewart,  you  are  older 
than  I  am,  and  should  know  your  manners.  Do  you 
think  it  either  very  wise  or  very  witty  to  cast  my  politics 
in  my  teeth?  I  thought  where  folk  differed,  it  was  the 
part  of  gentlemen  to  differ  civilly;  and  if  I  did  not,  I  may 
tell  you  I  could  find  a  better  taunt  than  some  of  j^ours. 
Alan,  stopping  opposite  David, — hat  cocked,  hands  in 
pocket,  head  to  one  side,  with  taunting  smile,  —  ivhistles 
an  air. 

David.  [Arigrily]  Why  do  ye  take  that  air,  Mr.  Stew- 
art? Is  that  to  remind  me  you  have  been  beaten  on 
both  sides? 

Alan.     David! 

David.  But  it's  time  these  manners  ceased,  and  I  mean 
you  shall  henceforth  speak  civilly  of  my  King  and  my 
good  friends  the  Campbells. 

Alan.     I  am  a  Stewart. 

David.  O  !  I  ken  ye  bear  a  king's  name.  But  you  are  to 
remember,  since  I  have  been  in  the  Highlands,  I  have 


Second  Year]  Kidnapped  85 

seen  a  good  many  of  those  that  bear  it;  and  the  best 
I  can  say  of  them  is  this,  that  they  would  be  none  the 
worse  of  washing. 

Alan.     [Very  low]     Do  you  know  that  you  insult  me? 

David.  I  am  sorry  for  that,  for  I  am  not  done;  and  if  you 
distaste  the  sermon,  I  doubt  the  pirliecue  will  please  you 
as  little.  You  have  been  chased  in  the  field  by  the 
grown  men  of  my  party;  it  seems  a  poor  kind  of  pleasure 
to  outface  a  boy.  IJoth  the  Campbells  and  the  Whigs 
h-ave  beaten  you;  you  have  run  before  them  like  a  hare. 
It  behoves  you  to  speak  of  them  as  of  your  betters. 

Alan.  [Stands  still,  facing  David]  This  is  a  pity.  There 
are  things  said  that  cannot  be  passed  over. 

David.     I  never  asked  you  to.     I  am  as  ready  as  yourself. 

Alan.     Ready? 

David.  Ready!  I  am  no  blower  and  boaster  like  some 
that  I  could  name.     Come  on! 

David  draws  sword,  and  falls  on  guard. 

Alan.  David!  Are  ye  daft?  I  cannae  draw  upon  ye, 
David.     It's  fair  murder! 

David.     That  was  your  look-out  when  you  insulted  me. 

Alan.  It's  the  truth!  It's  the  bare  truth.  [He  draws  his 
sword,  instantly  throws  it  from  him  and  falls  to  the  ground] 
Na,  na,  I  cannae,  I  cannae! 

David  ivatches  him  for  a  moment.     His  expression  sud- 
denly changes  to  one  of  agony. 

David.  Alan!  Alan!  If  you  cannae  help  me,  I  must  just 
die  here.  [Alan  .starts,  sits  up,  and  looks  at  David]  It's 
true.  I'm  by  with  it.  O,  let  me  get  into  the  bield  of  a 
house.     I  '11  can  die  there  easier. 

Alan.     [Rising]     Can  ye  walk? 

David.  No,  not  without  help.  This  last  hour,  my  legs 
have  been  fainting  under  me;  I've  a  stitch  in  my  side 
like  a  red-hot  iron;  I  cannae  breathe  right.     If  I  die, 


8G  Dramatization  [Second  Year 

yc'll  can  forgive  me,  Alan?     In  my  heart,  I  liked  ye  JBne 
— even  when  I  was  the  angriest. 

Alan.  Whecsht,  wheesht!  Dinnae  say  that!  David, 
man,  ye  ken — [Breaking  off  to  hide  emotion]  Let  me  get 
my  arm  about  ye.  — That's  the  way!  Now  lean  upon 
me  hard,  (iudc  kens  where  there's  a  house!  We're  in 
Balwhidder,  too;  there  should  be  no  want  of  houses,  no, 
nor  friends'  houses,  here.    Do  you  gang  easier  so,  Davie? 

David.     Ay,  I  can  be  doing  tliis  way. 

Alan.  [Sadly]  Davie,  I'm  no  a  right  man  at  all;  I  have 
neither  sense  nor  kindness;  I  couldnae  remember  ye 
were  just  a  bairn,  I  couldnae  see  ye  were  dying  on  your 
feet;  Davie,  ye '11  have  to  tr^^  and  forgive  me. 

David.  Oh,  man,  let's  say  no  more  about  it!  We're 
neither  one  of  us  to  mend  the  other^ — -that's  the  truth! 
We  must  just  bear  and  forbear,  man  Alan!  O,  but  my 
stitch  is  sore!     Is  there  nae  house? 

Alan.  I'll  find  a  house  to  ye,  David.  We'll  follow  down 
the  burn,  where  there's  bound  to  be  houses.  My  poor 
man,  will  ye  no  be. better  on  my  back? 

David.     O,  Alan,  and  me  a  good  twelve  inches  taller? 

Alan.  [Standing  still  and  drawing  himself  up  proudly]  Ye  're 
no  such  a  thing !  There  may  be  a  trifling  matter  of  an  inch 
or  two;  I'm  no  saying  just  exactly  what  ye  would  call 
a  tall  man,  whatever;  and  I  daresay,  [his  voice  tailing 
off  in  a  laughable  manner]  now  when  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  I  daresay  ye '11  be  just  about  right.  Ay,  it'll  be  a 
foot,  or  near  hand;  or  maybe  even  mair! 

David.  Alan,  what  makes  ye  so  good  to  me?  What  makes 
ye  care  for  such  a  thankless  fellow? 

Alan.  Deed,  and  I  don't  know.  For  just  precisely 
what  I  thought  I  liked  about  ye,  was  that  ye  never 
quarreled; — -and  now  I  like  ye  better! 

As  they  take  up  their  journey  again,  the  curtain  goes  down. 


Second  Year]      Tlw  Adveutuve  of  My  AuTit  87 

THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT 

Washington  Irving 

PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  dramatization  of  The  Adventure  of  My  Aunt  ( Tales  of  a  Traveller) 
enhances,  perhaps,  the  humor  of  the  story  and  makes  an  amusing  epi- 
sode for  high  school  presentatfon.  The  only  change  of  text  necessary 
for  the  adaptation  is  the  turning  of  mucli  of  the  indirect  into  direct 
discourse. 

Characters : 

My  Aunt.  The  Cook. 

The  Maid.  The  Butler. 

The  Steward.  The  Robber. 

The  Coachman.  The  Footman. 

The  scene  represents  a  lady's  boudoir.  At  the  righ*, 
stands  a  dressing  table,  a  chair  before  it.  At  the  left,  is  a 
couch  near  ichich  stands  a  small  table.  A  roughly  sketched 
fiill  length  portrait  of  a  man,  the  head  supplied  by  that  of  the 
Robber,  hangs  against  curtains  at  the  rear  of  the  stage,  thus 
allowing  for  the  concealment  of  the  Robber's  body.  The  dres- 
sing table  is  so  placed  that  the  portrait  is  reflected  in  the 
mirror.  As  the  curtain  rises.  My  Aunt  enters,  followed  by 
the  Maid  carrying,  in  one  hand,  a  lighted  candle,  in  the  other, 
a  tray  containing  a  water  pitcher  and  glass.  She  places  the 
candle  on  the  dressing  table,  the  tray  on  the  table. 

My  Aunt.     That  will  do,  Hawkins.     I  shall  not  need  your 

services  tonight.     Yon  may  go. 
The  Maid.     [Maldng  a  curtsy]     Very  well,  my  lady. 

Exit  Maid.     My  Aunt  sits  down  at  the  dressing  table 

and  looks  critically  at  herself  in  the  mirror. ' 
My  Aunt.    Yes,  the  wrinkles  are  coming.   'Tis  sad  but  true. 


88  Dramatization  r  second  Tear 

[Arranging  her  hair]  And  the  gray  hairs  too!  [Leans 
back  in  ike  chair  and  folds  her  hands  in  her  lap]  I  wonder  if 
the  Squire,  when  he  called  to  welcome  me  to  my  country 
home  today,  thought  I  had  changed  much  in  these  twenty 
years.  He  certainly  has.  What  a  slender  youth  he  was! 
And  now  [turning  round  and  looking  at  the  portrait]  he  is 
almost  as  portly  as  my  dear,  departed  Henry.  [She  sighs 
deeply  and  gazes  long  and  steadily  at  the  picture.  Then  she 
turns  again  to  the  mirror]  Well,  enough  of  dreaming.  I 
must  make  myself  ready  for  another  kind  of  dreams.  [She 
leans  forward,  gazes,  in  the  glass  and  prepares  to  take  down 
her  hair.  Suddenly  she  turns  round,  as  a  slight  noise  is 
heard,  hut  as  she  sees  nothing,  turns  again,  and  busies  herself 
once  more  with  her  hair]  Why,  I  'm  a  bit  nervous  tonight. 
'Twas  nothing  surely  but  a  mouse. — Dear  Henry! 

She  heaves  another  deep  sigh.  The  sigh  is  distinctly 
re-echoed.  She  does  not  stir,  but  gazes  fixedly  in  the  mir- 
ror, apparently  at  her  own  image,  but  really  at  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  portrait  in  the  mirror.  She  gives  a  start  as  she 
notices  that  the  head  moves,  but  rapidly  recovers  herself  and 
goes  on  deliberately  arranging  her  hair,  humming  a  tune 
the  while. 

My  Aunt.  [Yawrmig]  Oh,  I'm  so  sleepy.  [She  casually 
overturns  a  jewel  box]  My,  how  stupid  of  me!  [She  takes 
the  candle  and  picks  up  the  articles  one  by  one  and 
replaces  them]  Now  I've  found  them  all.  [She  is  about 
to  sit  doum  again,  but  suddenly  stops]  Oh,  I  forgot  to 
tell  Hawkins  to  wake  me  early  for  that  horseback  ride 
with  the  Squire.  I'll  go  tell  her  now.  [She  goes  to  the 
door,  looks  out  for  an  instant,  and  then  walks  out] 

The  Robber.  [Putting  out  his  head  and  looking  around  the 
room]  My,  but  I  thought  this  eye  of  mine,  which  will 
wink  had  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  But  she  didn't 
see,  thank  the  Lord!     [Chuckling] 


Second  Year]      Tlw  Advcnture  of  My  Aunt  89 

The  Robber  s  head  is  quickly  drawn  back  as  the  door  is 
pushed  open.  Enter  the  following  procession:  My  Aunt, 
leading,  with  a  poker  in  her  hand;  the  Steward,  with  a 
rusty  blunderbuss;  the  Coachman,  with  a  loaded  ivhip;  the 
Footman,  with  a  pair  of  horse-pistols;  the  Cook,  flourishing 
a  huge  chopping -knife;  the  Butler,  a  bottle  in  each  hand; 
the  Maid,  half  fainting,  with  a  bottle  of  smelling  salts  to  her 
nose,  bringing  up  the  rear.  My  Aunt  leads  the  procession 
around  the  room,  and,  lohen  she  reaches  the  portrait 
suddenly  halts. 

The  Maid.     O,  I'm  afraid  of  the  ghostesses,  my  lady. 

My  Aunt.  [Resolutely]  Ghosts!  I'll  singe  their  whiskers 
for  them!  [Flourishing  her  poker]  Pull  down  that  pic- 
ture! [A  heavy  groan  and  a  sound  like  the  chattering  of 
teeth  issue  from  behind  the  picture.  The  servants  all 
shrink  back]     Instantly!     [In  a  commanding  tone] 

The  men  step  forward  rather  unwillingly,  each  trying  to 
push  the  other  first.  They  finally  all  together  seize  the  por- 
trait and  pull  it  down.  My  Aunt  steps  up,  parts  the  cur- 
tains that  hang  behind  the  picture  and  discloses  the  Robber 
standing  on  a  small  stool.  In  one  hand  is  a  long  knife. 
He  is  trembling  like  an  aspen-leaf.  Dropping  the  knife, 
he  falls  on  his  knees  before  My  Aunt. 

The  Robber.  [Whining]  Mercy!  Mercy!  My  lady! 
'Twas  but  intended  as  a  joke  to  scare  you  all. 

The  Butler.  [Shaking  his  bottles  at  the  Robber,  then  turning 
to  My  Aunt]  Why,  your  ladyship,  this  is  Dan,  the  dis- 
missed coachman.  [To  the  Robber]  Mercy!  You  rascal! 
Hanging  would  be  more  like  it! 

My  Aunt.  [Sternly]  Rise,  fellow.  [To  the  Butler  and  the  Cook] 
Take  this  fellow  to  the  horse-pond.  Cleanse  him  well  and 
rub  him  down  with  an  oaken  towel.  Then  let  him 
go.  [  To  the  servants]  And  now  you  are  dismissed  for  the 
night. 


90  Dramatization  [second  Year 

They  form  in  line,  the  Butler  and  Cook  holding  the  Robber 
by  the  wrists,  leading,  and  march  out  of  the  room.  . 
My  Aunt.  [Seating  herself  once  more  at  her  dressing  table, 
and  apparently  talking  to  her  image]  Well !  If  such  little 
disturbances  as  this  are  a  nightly  occurrence  in  this  big 
house,  the  Squire  shall  have  my  answer  tomorrow. 
Curtain 


THIRD   YEAR 


SOIIRAB   AND   RUSTUM 

Mattbew  Arnold 
PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  following  episodes  have  been  selected  from  Matthew  Arnold's 
Sckrab  and  Rustum  as  the  best  units  for  dramatization.  If  a  more 
elaborate  performance  is  desired,  the  incident  of  the  challenge,  in  Rus- 
tum's  tent,  might  be  worked  up  as  a  second  scene,  coming  between  the 
two  here  given,  or  it  could  be  presented  as  a  separate  episode. 

A  word  of  caution  may  be  necessary  concerning  the  demonstration 
of  grief  in  scene  ii.  While  the  dignity  of  the  lines,  the  tragedy  of  the 
situation,  and  the  pervading  atmosphere  of  the  scene  are,  in  themselves, 
safeguards  against  exaggeration,  the  action  should  be  more  restrained 
than  that  suggested  by  the  text,  in  order  to  avoid  any  hint  of  the 
melodramatic. 

Scene  I 

Sohrab's  Plea 

Characters : 
Sohrab. 
Peran-Wisa. 

The  stage  represents  the  inferior  of  Peran-Wisa's  tent. 
The  oriental  setting  may  he  suggested  by  an  arrangement 
of  curtains,  rugs,  and  cushions.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Peran- 
Wisa  is  discovered  lying  on  a  bed  of  rugs.  The  stage  is  in 
darkness  except  for  a  dim  light  burning  in  Peran-Wisa' s  tent. 
If  a  more  elaborate  setting  is  desired,  and  painted  scenery  is 
available,  the  tent  may  be  made  to  occupy  only  a  part  of  the 


8  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

stage,  the  rest  representing  the  desert  surroundings,  with  a 
'painted  background  picivring  the  river  Oxus  winding  into  the 
distance.  During  the  progress  of  the  dialogue,  the  light  on 
the  stage  grows  gradually  brighter,  though  it  never  reaches  the 
full  light  of  day.  As  Sohrab  enters,  Peran-Wisa  partially 
rises,  leaning  on  one  arm. 
Peran-Wisa. 

Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 

Speak!  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm? 
Sohrab. 

Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa!  it  is  I. 

The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 

Sleep,  but  I  sleep  not;  all  night  long  I  lie 

Tossing  and  wakeful;  and  I  come  to  thee. 
He  kneels  by  the  bed. 
Peran-Wisa. 

What  brings  thee  here,  before  the  day  appears? 
Sohrab. 

I  seek  thy  counsel  as  Afrasiab  bid. 

And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Peran-Wisa. 

Speak,  boy,  and  I  will  heed  thee  as  my  son. 
Sohrab. 

Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan  first 

I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 

I  have  still  serv'd  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown, 

Pi±  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
Peran-Wisa. 

Thy  dauntless  spirit  every  Tartar  knows. 
Sohrab. 

Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask! 

Let  the  two  armies  rest  today:  but  I 

Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 

To  meet  me,  man  to  man;  if  I  prevail, 


Third  Tear]  Sohrob  and  Rustuvi 

Riistum  will  surely  hear  it:  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 
He  rises  and  iralks  up  and  down. 
Peran-Wisa. 

Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  for  ever  first. 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk. 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen? 

SOHRAB. 

Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight, 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are  sunk; 
But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear. 
Peran-Wisa. 

But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all. 

To  seek  out  Rustum,  seek  him  not  through  fight! 

Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 

O  Sohrab!  carry  an  unwoundcd  son! 

SoHRAB. 

Nay,  would  great  Rustum's  heart  rejoice  to  find 
A  son  like  this,  content  to  dwell  at  ease 
In  Tartar  camp? — O  grant  me  my  desire! 

lie  kneels  again. 
Peran-Wisa.     [Placing  his  hand  on  Sohrab's  head] 
Go,  if  thou  must — and  yet  my  heart  forebodes 
Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well,  though  lost 
To  us;  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in  peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain.     But  who  can  keep  the  lien's  cub 
From  ravening,  and  who  govern  Rustum's  son? 
Go!     I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires. 

He  rises  from  the  couch.     Sohrab  takes  his  leave. 
Curtain 


10  Dramatization  [TwrdYear 

Scene  II 
The  Recognition 

Characters : 

Sohrab. 
Rustum. 

The  stage  represents  the  scene  of  the  combat.  The  same 
setting  may  be  used  as  in  the  first  scene  with  the  tent  removed. 
The  stage  is  in  semi-darkness.  The  curtain  rises  on  the 
cry  of  "  Rustum ["  behind  the  scenes,  as  Sohrab  falls  fatally 
wounded.     Rustum  stands  over  the  prostrate  Sohrab. 

Rustum.     [Scornfully] 

Sohrab,  thou  thoiightest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 

A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse. 

And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent; 

Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 

Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  Avould  move 

His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 

And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 

Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame, 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 

Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man! 

Sohrab. 

Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man! 
No!     Rustum  slaj's  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  that  beloved  name  unnerv'd  my  arm  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  ray  shield 
Fall;  and  thy  spear  transfix'd  an  unarm 'd  foe. 


Third  Year]  Solwab    CUld    Rustum  11 

And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult 'st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear: 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world. 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee! 

Rustum.     [Still  cold  and  unmoved] 

What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son. 

SoiiRAB.     [With  failing  voice] 

Ah,  yes,  he  had!  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear, 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  nuike  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance  be? 
Oh,  could  I  live  till  I  that  grief  had  seen! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her. 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp. 
With  s])oils,  and  honor,  when  the  war  is  done. 
Sohrab  boivs  his  head. 

Rustum. 

O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 

Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have  lov'd. 

Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 

Have  told  thee  false  —  thou  art  not  Rustum's  son, 

For  Rustum  had  no  son;  one  child  he  had  — 

But  one  —  a  girl;  who  with  her  mother  now 

Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us — 

Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war! 

SonuAB.     [Rai.'iing  himself  on  one  arm  with  (/rcat  difficulty, 
wrathfully] 

Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my  words? 


12  Dramatization  [Third  year 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 

And  falsehood,  while  I  liv'd,  was  far  from  mine. 

I  tell  thee,  prick'd  upon  this  arm  I  hear 

The  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 

That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore. 
Rustum. 

Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not  lie! 

If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's  son. 

Sohrah  bares  his  arm.     Rustum  looks  closely  at  the  bared 

arm  in  the  dim  light. 
Sohrab. 

How  say'st  thou?     Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 

Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's? 
Rustum.     [At  first  speechless,  then  uttering  a  sharp  cry] 

O  boy  —  thy  father! —     . 
Sohrab.     [Once  more  raises  himself  on  his  arm  and  cries 

aloud  with  joy] 

Rustum!  My  father!  —  thee  I  live  to  greet! 
Rustum. 

My  son!  —  And  yet  they  told  me  that  the  babe 

Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  me. 

Had  been  a  puny  girl — no  boy  at  all! 

And  now  he  lies  here  smitten  by  my  hand! 

Why  should  I  longer  live! —     . 

He  reaches  for  his  sword  but  Sohrab  stays  his  hand. 

Sohrab. 

Father  forbear!  for  I  but  meet  today. 
The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven;  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious  hand. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this!  I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found! 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks. 


Third  Year]  Sohvab  and  Rustum  13 

And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say,  "My  son!" 
Quick!  quick!  for  number'd  are  my  sands  of  Hfe. 
The  poem  itself  suggests  action  for  Rustum. 
Rustum. 

Oh,  that  the  waves  of  this  great  Oxus  stream, 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  thou  liest, 
Were  flowing  over  me,  my  son!  my  son! 

SoiIRAB. 

Desire  not  that,  my  father!  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds  and  live. 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscur'd,  and  die! 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do. 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come!  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these! 
Let  me  entreat  for  them;  what  have  they  done? 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately,  mound  above  my  bones. 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry: 
"Sohrab,  the  mighty  Rustum's  son,  lies  there. 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill!" 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave. 
Rustum. 

Fear  not!  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my  son. 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents. 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me. 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  that  I  have  ever  slain 


14  Dramatization  [TurdYear 

Mif^ht  be  onccmore  alive;  my  })ittcrcst  foes, 
So  thou  mightcst  live  too,  my  son,  my  son! 
Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself. 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine; 
Not  thou  of  mine!  and  I  might  die,  not  thou; 

SOIIRAB. 

Not  yet! — but  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace,  not  now, — 
But  thou  shalt  have  it  on  some  far-off  day, 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea. 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave. 

RUSTUM. 

Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure. 

SOHRAB. 

O  father,  draw  the  spear  from  out  my  side. 
To  ease  the  imperious  anguish  of  my  wound! 

Rustuin  draivs  the  spear.     Sohrab  falls  back. 
Great  Rustum!  Father! —     .     .     . 

The  curtain  goes  down  as  Rnstiim  falls  prostrate  across 
the  body  of  Sohrab. 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  15 


SILAS   MARNER 

George  Eliot 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

Silas  Marner  furnishes  an  attractive  theme  for  a  four-scene  play 
showing  the  transformation  of  Silas  through  the  coming  of  the  golden- 
haired  Eppie,  in  place  of  the  lost  gold.  Chaps,  vi,  \n,  xiii,  xi\%  xvi,  and 
xix  are  utilized  in  the  dramatization.  In  accordance  with  the  general 
plan  followed  in  this  book,  the  scenes  are  reduced  to  their  simplest  terms. 
The  principal  changes  in  the  story  are  as  follows:  the  change  in  the  time 
of  Godfrey's  visit  to  Silas  (chap,  xiii)  from  night  to  morning;  the 
combination  of  this  episode  with  Dolly  Winthrop's  conference  with 
Silas  (chap,  xiv);  the  transfer  of  the  conversation  between  Silas  and 
Eppie  (chap,  xvi)  from  out-of-doors  to  the  cottage  of  Silas,  in  order  to 
simplify  the  problem  of  staging,  by  avoiding  the  necessity  of  shifting 
scenery  between  scenes  iii  and  iv. 

Sce?ie  I 

The  Night  of  Despair 

Characters: 
Mr.  Snell,  the  Landlord.      Be7i  Winthrop,  the  Wheelwright. 
Mr.  Macey,  the  Tailor  and    Silas  Marner. 

Parish  Clerk.  Jem  Rodney. 

Bob  Lundy,  the  Butcher.       Mr.  Donias,  the  Farrier. 
Other  Villagers. 

The  scene  is  the  kitchen  of  the  Rainboiv  Tavern.  Some  of  the 
men  are  seated  at  tables,  with  mugs  of  ale  before  them;  others, 
on  benches  about  the  room.  As  the  curtain  rises,  all  eyes  are 
directed  toward  Mr.  Macey,  who  is  speaking.  The  men 
sit,  pipes  in  hand,  suspending  their  smoking  to  listen. 

Mr.  Macey.  Well,  yes,  the  wedding  turned  out  all  right, 
on'y  poor  Mrs.  Lammeter — that's  Miss  Osgood  as  was — 
died  afore  the  lasses  was  growed  up;  but  for  prosperity  and 
everything  respectable,  there's  no  family  more  looked  on. 


1(5  Dramatization  [Third  Tear 

Mr,  Snell.  Why,  old  Mr.  Lammctcr  had  a  pretty  fortin, 
didn't  they  say,  when  he  come  into  these  j)art.s? 

Mr.  Macey,  Well,  yes,  but  I  dare  say  it's  as  much  as  thi.s 
Mr.  Lammeter's  done  to  keep  it  whole.  For  there  was  al- 
lays a  talk  as  nobody  could  get  rich  on  the  Warrens;  though 
he  holds  it  cheap,  for  it's  what  they  call  Charity  Land. 

Bob.  Ay,  and  there's  few  folks  know  so  well  as  you  how 
it  come  to  be  Charity  Land,  eh,  Mr.  Macey? 

Mr.  Macey.  {Contemptuously]  How  should  they?  Vv'hy, 
my  grandfather  made  the  groom's  livery  for  that  Mr. 
Cliff  as  came  and  built  the  big  stables  at  the  Warrens. 
Why,  they're  stables  four  times  as  big  as  Squire  Cass's, 
for  he  thought  o'  nothing  but  bosses  and  hunting,  Cliff 
didn't  —  a  Lunnon  tailor,  some  folks  said,  as  had  gone 
mad  wi'  cheating.  For  he  couldn't  ride;  lor'  bless  you! 
But  ride  he  would,  as  if  Old  Harry  had  been  a-driving 
him;  and  he'd  a  son,  a  lad  o'  sixteen;  and  nothing 
would  his  father  have  him  do,  but  he  must  ride  and 
ride — though  the  lad  was  frighted,  they  said,  and  the 
poor  lad  got  sickly  and  died,  and  the  father  didn't  live 
long  after  him,  for  he  got  queerer  nor  ever,  and  they 
said  he  used  to  go  out  i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  wi'  a 
lantern  in  his  hand,  to  the  stables,  and  set  a  lot  o' 
lights  burning,  for  he  got  as  he  couldn't  sleep;  and 
there  he'd  stand,  cracking  his  whip  and  looking  at  his 
bosses;  and  they  said  it  was  a  mercy  as  the  stables  didn't 
get  burnt  down  wi'  the  poor  dumb  creaturs  in  'em. 
[Stops  a  moment  to  recover  his  breath,  takes  a  drink  and 
then  continues]  But  at  last  he  died  raving,  and  they 
found  as  he'd  left  all  his  property,  W^arrens  and  all, 
to  a  Lunnon  Charity,  and  that's  how  the  Warrens 
come  to  be  Charity  Land;  though,  as  for  the 
stables,  Mr.  Lammeter  never  uses  'em — they're  out 
o'  all  charicter — lor'  bless  you!  if  you  was  to  set  the 


Third  Year]  SUtts  Mamev  17 

doors  a-banging  in  'cm,  it  'ud  sound  like  thunder  half 
o'er  the  parish. 

Mr.  Snell.  Ay,  but  there's  more  going  on  in  the  stables 
than  what  folks  see  by  daylight,  eh,  Mr.  Macey? 

Mr.  Macey.  [Winking  mysteriously]  Ay,  ay;  go  that  way 
of  a  dark  night,  that's  all,  and  then  make  believe,  if  you 
like,  as  you  didn't  see  lights  i'  the  stables,  nor  hear  the 
stamping  o'  the  bosses,  nor  the  cracking  o'  the  whips, 
and  howling,  too,  if  it's  tow'rt  daybreak.  "Cliff's  Holi- 
day" has  been  the  name  of  it  ever  sin'  I  were  a  boy; 
that's  to  say,  some  said  as  it  was  the  holiday  Old  Harry 
gev  him  from  roasting,  like.  [Men  lay  down  pipes  and 
lean  forivard]  That's  what  my  father  told  me,  and  he 
was  a  reasonable  man,  though  there's  folks  nowadays 
know  what  happened  afore  they  were  born  better  nor 
they  know  their  own  business. 

Mr.  Snell.  [Turning  to  the  Farrier]  What  do  you  say  to 
that,  eh.  Dowlas?     There's  a  nut  for  you  to  crack. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  [Eagerly  seizing  the  cue]  Say?  I  say  what 
a  man  should  say  as  doesn't  shut  his  eyes  to  look  at  a 
finger-post.  I  say,  as  I'm  ready  to  wager  any  man  ten 
pound,  if  he'll  stand  out  wi'  me  any  dry  night  in  the 
pasture  before  the  Warren  stables,  as  we  shall  neither 
see  lights  nor  hear  noises,  if  it  isn't  the  blowing  of  our 
own  noses.  That's  what  I  say,  and  I've  said  it  many 
a  time;  but  there's  nobody  'uU  ventur  a  ten-pun'  note 
on    their  ghos'es  as  they  make  so  sure  of. 

Ben.  Why,  Dowlas,  that's  easy  betting,  that  is.  You 
might  as  well  bet  a  man  as  he  wouldn't  catch  the  rheu- 
matise  if  he  stood  up  to's  neck  in  the  pool  of  a  frosty 
night.  It  'ud  be  fine  fun  for  a  man  to  win  his  bet  as 
he'd  catch  the  rheumatise.  Folks  as  believe  in  Cliff's 
Holiday  aren't  a-going  to  ventur  near  it  for  a  matter 
o'  ten  pound. 


18  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Mii.  Macey.  [With  a  sarcastic  smile,  tapping  his  thumbs 
together]  If  Master  Dowlas  wants  to  know  the  truth  on 
it,  he's  no  call  to  lay  any  bet  —  let  him  go  and  stan'  by 
himself — there's  nobody  'uU  hinder  him;  and  then  he 
can  let  the  parish'ners  know  if  they're  wrong. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  [Scornfully]  Thank  you!  I'm  obliged 
to  you.  If  folks  are  fools,  it's  no  business  o'  mine.  / 
don't  want  to  make  out  the  truth  about  ghos'es;  I  know 
it  a 'ready.  But  I'm  not  against  a  bet — everything 
fair  and  open.  Let  any  man  bet  me  ten  pound  as  I  shall 
see  Cliff's  Holiday,  and  I'll  go  and  stand  by  myself.  I 
want  no  company.     I  'd  as  lief  do  it  as  I  'd  fill  this  pipe. 

Bob.  Ah,  but  who's  to  watch  you.  Dowlas,  and  see  you 
do  it?     That's  no  fair  bet. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  [Angrily]  No  fair  bet?  I  should  like  to 
hear  any  man  stand  up  and  say  I  want  to  bet  unfair. 
Come  now,  Master  Lundy,  I  should  like  to  hear  you 
say  it. 

Bob.  Very  like  you  would.  But  it 's  no  business  o '  mine. 
You're  none  o'  my  bargains,  and  I  aren't  a-going  to  try 
and  'bate  your  price.  If  anybody  '11  bid  for  you  at  your 
own  vallying,  let  him.    I  'm  for  peace  and  cpiietness,  I  am. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  Yes,  that's  what  every  yapping  cur  is,  when 
you  hold  a  stick  up  at  him.  But  I'm  afraid  o'  neither 
man  nor  ghost,  and  I'm  ready  to  lay  a  fair  bet.  / 
aren't  a  turn-tail  cur. 

Mr.  Snell.  [Tolerantly]  Ay,  but  there's  this  in  it,  Dow- 
las. There's  folks,  i'  my  opinion,  they  can't  see  ghos'es, 
not  if  they  stood  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  before  'em.  And 
there's  a  reason  i'  that.  For  there's  my  wife,  now, 
can't  smell,  not  if  she'd  the  strongest  o'  cheese  under 
her  nose.  I  never  see'd  a  ghost  myself;  but  then  I  says 
to  myself,  "Very  like  I  haven't  got  the  smell  for  'em." 
I  mean,  putting  a  ghost  for  a  smell,  or  else  contrairiways. 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  19 


And  so,  I'm  for  holding  with  both  sides;  for,  as  I  say, 
the  truth  Hes  between  'em.  And  if  Dowlas  was  to  go 
and  stand,  and  say  he'd  never  seen  a  wink  o'  Cliff's 
Holiday  all  the  night  through,  I'd  back  him;  and  if  any- 
body said  as  Cliff's  Holiday  was  certain  sure  for  all  that, 
I'd  back  him  too.     For  the  smell's  what  I  go  by. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  [Impatiently  setting  his  glass  dou-n]  Tut, 
tut,  what's  the  smell  got  to  do  with  it?  Did  ever  a 
ghost  give  a  man  a  black  eye?  That's  what  I  should 
like  to  know.  If  ghos'es  want  me  to  believe  in  'em,  let 
'em  leave  off  skulking  i'  the  dark  and  i'  lone  places — 
let  'em  come  where  there's  company  and  candles. 

Mr.  Macey.  [In  a  disgusted  tone]  As  if  ghos'es  'ud  want 
to  be  believed  in  by  anybody  so  ignirant. 

While  Mr.  Macey  is  speaking,  Silas  Marner,  pale,  hat- 
less,  with  disheveled  hair,  appears  in  the  doorway.  He 
has  on  an  old  coat  ichich  has  been  drenched  icith  rain.  For 
a  moment  no  one  sees  him;  then  the  men  start,  for  under 
the  influence  of  the  theme  of  conversation,  they  have  an 
impression  that  they  see  an  apparition.  The  Landlord,  as 
host,  is  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

Mr.  Snell.  [I?i  a  conciliatory  tone]  Master  Marner, 
what's  lacking  to  you?     What's  your  business  here? 

Silas.  [Frantically]  Robbed!  I've  been  robbed!  I  want 
the  constable  —  and  the  Justice — and  Squire  Cass  —  and 
Mr.  Crackcnthorp. 

Mr.  Snell.  [To  Jem  Rodney,  who  is  nearest  the  door]  Lay 
hold  on  him,  Jem  Rodney;  he's  off  his  head,  I  doubt. 
He's  wet  through. 

Jem.  [Shalci7ig  his  head  and  moving  farther  from  Marner] 
Come  and  lay  hold  on  him  yourself,  Mr.  Snell,  if  jou've 
a  mind.  [Muttering]  He's  been  robbed,  and  murdered 
too,  for  what  I  know. 

Silas.     [Turning  and fi. ring  his  eyes  on  Jem]     Jem  Rodney! 


20  Dramatization  [Third  year 

Jem.  [Trembling,  and  seizing  his  drinking-can  as  a  defensive 
weapon]     Ay,  Master  Marncr,  wliat  do  ye  want  \vi'  nie? 

Silas.  [Clasping  his  hands  entreatingly  and  raising  his  voice  to 
a  cry]  If  it  was  you  stole  my  money,  give  it  me  back — and  I 
won't  meddle  with  you.  I  won't  set  the  constable  on  you. 
Give  it  me  back,  and  I  '11  let  you — I  '11  letyouhave  a  guinea. 

Jem.  [Angrily,  taking  a  step  nearer  to  Silas]  Me  stole  your 
money !  I  '11  pitch  this  can  at  your  eye  if  you  talk  o'  my 
stealing  your  money. 

Mr.  Snell.  [Rising  resolutely,  and  seizing  Marner  by  the 
shoulder]  Come,  come,  Master  Marncr,  if  you've  got 
any  information  to  lay,  speak  it  out  sensible,  and  show  as 
you're  in  your  right  mind,  if  you  expect  anybody  to 
listen  to  you.  You're  as  wet  as  a  drownded  rat.  Sit 
down  and  dry  yourself,  and  speak  straight  forrard. 
[Leading  him  to  the  fireplace] 

Mr.  Dowlas.  Ah,  to  be  sure,  man.  Let's  have  no  more 
staring  and  screaming,  else  we'll  have  you  strapped  for 
a  madman.  That  was  why  I  didn't  speak  at  the  firet  — 
thinks  I,  the  man's  run  mad. 

Several  Voices.     Ay,  ay,  make  him  sit  down. 

Mr.  Snell.  [Forcing  Marner  to  take  off  his  coat,  and  to  sit 
doivn  on  a  chair  aivay  from  every  one  else,  in  the  center  of 
the  circle,  and  in  the  direct  rays  of  the  fire]  Now,  then, 
Master  Marner,  what's  this  you've  got  to  say  —  as 
you've  been  robbed?     Speak  out. 

Jem.  [Hastily]  He'd  better  not  say  again  as  it  was  me 
robbed  him.  What  could  I  ha'  done  with  his  money .^ 
I  could  as  easy  steal  the  parson's  surplice,  and  wear  it. 

Mr.  Snell.  Hold  your  tongue,  Jem,  and  let's  hear  what 
he's  got  to  say. — Now  then.  Master  Marner. 

Silas.  My  gold  is  gone! — that's  all  I  know  —  taken  while 
I  went  out  to  get  a  bit  of  string  I  needed  in  the  morning 
for  setting  up  my  work! 


Third  Year]  SUttS    MameV  21 

Mr.  Macey.     And  did  you  leave  the  door  open,  man? 

Silas.     Ay,  ay. 

Mr.  Dowlas.     A  foolish  thing ! 

Mr.  Snell.  Nay,  nay^ — ^on  such  a  night — who'd  a 
thought  o'  thieves  abroad? 

Mr.  Macey.  What  time  o'  the  evening  did  it 
happen? 

Silas.  [Shaking  his  head]  I  can't  rightly  tell.  I  left  my 
supper  —  a  bit  o'  pork — baking  before  the  fire.  It  may 
ha'  been  two  hours  since. 

Mr.  Snell.  [Laying  his  hand  on  Marners  shoidder]  It 
isn't  Jem  Rodney  as  has  done  this  work.  Master  Marner. 
You  mustn't  be  a-casting  your  eye  at  poor  Jem.  There 
may  be  a  bit  of  a  reckoning  against  poor  Jem  for  the 
matter  of  a  hare  or  so  if  anybody  was  bound  to  keep 
their  eyes  staring  open,  and  niver  to  wink;  but  Jem's 
been  a-sitting  here  drinking  his  can,  like  the  decentest 
man  i'  the  parish,  since  before  you  left  your  house.  Mas- 
ter Marner,  by  your  own  account. 

Mr.  Macey.  Ay,  ay,  let's  have  no  accusing  o'  the  inni- 
cent.  That  isn't  the  law.  There  must  be  folks  to  swear 
again'  a  man  before  he  can  be  ta'en  up.  Let's  have  no 
accusing  o'  the  innicent.  Master  Marner. 

Silas.  [Aroused  by  Mr.  Macey' s  words,  starts  from  his  chair, 
goes  close  nj)  to  Jem,  and  looks  at  him  intently]  I  was 
wrong, — yes,  yes — I  ought  to  have  thought.  There's 
nothing  to  witness  against  you,  Jem.  Only  you'd  been 
into  my  house  oftener  than  anybody  else,  and  so  you 
came  into  my  head.  I  don't  accuse  you  —  I  won't  accuse 
anybody  —  only,  [lifting  up  his  hands  to  his  head,  and 
turning  aivay  ifith  heicildered  misery]  I  try  —  I  try  to 
think  where  my  guineas  can  be. 

Mr.  Macey.  Ay,  ay,  they  're  gone  where  it's  hot  enough 
to  melt  'em,  I  doubt. 


22  Drcnnatizafion 


[Third  Year 


Mr.  Dowlas.  [Scornfully]  Tcliuh!  [Briskly]  How  much 
money  might  tliere  be  in  the  bags,  Master  Marner. 

Silas.  [Scaling  hini.self  arjain,  with  a  groan]  Two  hundred 
and  seventy-two  pounds,  twelve  and  sixpence,  last  night 
when  I  counted  it. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  [With  an  air  of  great  importance]  Pooh! 
why,  they'd  be  none  so  heavy  to  carry.  Some  tramp's 
been  in,  that's  all;  and  what  I  vote  is,  as  two  of  the  sen- 
siblest  o'  the  company  should  go  with  y(m  to  ^Master 
Kench,  the  constable's — he's  ill  i'  bed,  I  know  that  much 
— and  get  him  to  appoint  one  of  us  his  deppity;for  that's 
the  law,  and  I  don't  think  any  body'uU  take  upon  him 
to  contradick  me  there.  It  isn't  much  of  a  walk  to 
Kench's;  and  then,  if  it's  me  as  is  deppity,  I'll  go  back 
with  you,  Master  Marner,  and  examine  yoU"r  premises; 
and  if  anybody's  got  any  fault  to  find  with  that,  I'll 
thank  him  to  stand  up  and  say  it  out  like  a  man. 

Mr.  Snell.  Let  us  see  how^  the  night  is,  though.  [Going 
to  the  door,  to  look  out,  then  returning]  Why,  it  rains 
heavy  still. 

Mr.  Dowlas.  ^Yell,  I'm  not  the  man  to  be  afraid  o'  the 
rain.  For  it'll  look  bad  w'hen  Justice  Malani  hears  as 
respectable  men  like  us  had  a  information  laid  before 
'em  and  took  no  steps. 

Mr.  Snell.     Ay — and  as  no  one  but  Mr.  Dowlas  seems  to 
care  to  go  out  on  such  a  night,  I  '11  go  to  Kench's  wdth  him. 
Dowlas  starts  to  take  his  coat  from  a  nail  on  the  wall. 

Mr.  Macey.  I  don't  see  as  how  Mr.  Dowlas  can  act  as 
deputy-constable.  My  father  was  a  man  what  under- 
stood the  law,  and  I  ha'  heard  him  say  that  no  doctor 
could  be  a  constable. 

A  murmur  rises  among  the  men.     Marner  sits  gazing 
at  the  fire,  as  in  a  dazed  condition,  during  this  colloquy. 

Mr.  Sxell.     [Laughing]     He's  only  a  cow-doctor  I 


Third  Year]  SiIgS    Mctimcr  23 

Mr.  Macey.  a  doctor's  a  doctor,  I  reckon,  though  he  may 
be  only  a  cow-doctor,  for  a  fly's  a  fly,  though  it  may  be 
a  hoss  fly,  eh,  Mr.  Dowlas? 

Mu.  Dowlas.  The  law  means  that  a  doctor  can  be  a  con- 
stable if  he  likes — he  needn't  be  one  if  he  don't  like! 

Mr.  Macey,  Nonsense!  The  law's  not  likely  to  be  fonder 
of  doctors  than  of  other  folks.  And  if  doctors  don't 
generally  like  to  be  constables,  how  do  you  come  to  be 
so  eager  to  be  one? 

Mr.  Dowlas.  /  don't  want  to  act  the  constable,  and 
there's  no  man  can  say  it  of  me,  if  he'd  tell  the  truth. 
But  if  there's  to  be  any  jealousy  and  cnnj'iug  about  going 
to  Kench's  in  the  rain,  let  them  go  as  like  it — you  won't 
get  me  to  go,  I  can  tell  you. 
No  one  makes  a  move  to  go. 

Mr.  Snell.     Come,  come,  Mr.  Dowlas!     No  more  quar 
reling.     We  must  see  to  poor  Marner  at  once. 

The  curtain  falls  as  the  Landlord  goes  to  Marner  and 
lays  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  . 

Scene  II 

.f-  The  Dawn  of  Hope 

^9  Characters: 

Godfrey  Cass.  Silas  Marner. 

Eppie.  Dolly  Winthrop. 

The  stage  represents  the  interior  of  Marner  s  cottage, 
meagerly  furnished.  In  one  corner,  as  if  partly  out  of  sight, 
the  loom  is  suggested.  The  spot  from  which  the  gold  ivas  taken 
is  indicated  by  loose  bricks.  On  one  side  of  the  room  is  a  small 
alcove,  with  a  rude  couch,  partly  concealed  by  hangings  in 
keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  furnishings.  A  kitchen  table 
and  two  or  three  wooden  chairs  complete  the  setting.     Silas 


24  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

is  discoicred  seated  near  the  hearth  irith  Eppie  in  his  arms, 
crooning  a  lullaby  to  soothe  the  tired  child  to  sleep.  The  part 
of  Eppie  in  this  scene  can  be  taken  by  a  little  sister  of  one  of 
the  girls  or  boys  of  the  scliool,  or  a  doll  could  be  nsed.  A  rap  on 
the  door  is  closely  followed  by  the  entrance  (f  Godfrey  Cass.  Silas 
starts  to  his  feet  in  alarm,  still  holding  the  child  in  his  arms. 

Silas.  Have  you  come  to  lake  the  child  from  me?  No  — 
No  —  I  can't  part  with  it.  I  can't  let  it  go.  [Sitting 
down  and  clasping  the  child  more  closely]  It's  come  to 
me  —  I've  a  right  to  keep  it. 

Godfrey.  [Indifferently]  You'd  l>ctter  take  the  child  to 
the  parish  today,  Marner. 

Silas.     [Sharply]  Whosaysso?  Will  they  make  me  take  her? 
He  wakes  the  child  in  his  agitation,  but  soothes  her  to 
sleep  again. 

Godfrey.  Why  you  wouldn't  like  to  keep  her,  should  you 
— an  old  bachelor  like  you? 

Silas.  Till  anybody  shows  they've  a  right  to  take  her 
away  from  me.  The  mother's  dead,  and  I  reckon  it's 
got  no  father;  it's  a  lone  thing — and  I'm  a  lone  thing. 
My  money's  gone  [glancing  toward  the  hole  in  the  hearth] 
I  don't  know  where  —  and  this  is  come  from  I  don't 
know  where.     I  know  nothing — I'm  partly  mazed. 

Godfrey.  [Approaches  Silas  and  the  sleeping  child  and 
looks  doivn  at  her]  Poor  little  thing!  [Puts  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  draws  out  a  gold  piece]  Let  me  give 
something  toward  finding  it  clothes. 

Silas.  [Shakes  his  head  and  gently  pushes  away  the  hand 
with  the  gold  coin]  No — No — ^  There's  no  need  of  that. 
Mrs.  Winthrop  — 

The  door  opens  arid  Dolly  Winthrop  enters  with  a  large 
bundle.  She  does  not  see  Godfrey,  who  has  hastily  moved 
away  from  Silas  at  the  sound  of  her  entrance. 


Third  Year]  SUus  Mamer  25 

Dolly.  [Opening  the  bundle]  You  see.  Master  Marner, 
there 's  no  call  to  buy  no  more  nor  a  pair  o'  shoes,  [iiees 
Godfrey  and  stops  suddenly,  drops  the  bundle  in  her  sur- 
prise, scaflcriuf/  the  baby-clothes  on  the  floor]  O!  Mr. 
Cass!  [With  a  curtsy  to  Godfrey]  I  thought  you 
were  alone. 

Godfrey.  I  was  just  going.  [To  Silas]  So  you  want  to 
keep  the  child ! 

Silas  nods.  Mrs.  Winthrop  reaches  out  her  arms  for 
Eppie,  and  Silas  reluctantly  surrenders  her.  As  Silas 
accompanies  Godfrey  to  the  door,  Dolly  Winthrop  lays  the 
sleeping  child  on  the  couch  in  the  alcove. 

Dolly.  [Returns,  picks  up  the  garments  from  the  floor,  and 
shoivs  them  one  by  one  to  Silas,  who  handles  them 
awkwardly,  but  almost  reverently]  You  see  I've  got 
the  little  petticoats  as  Aaron  wore  five  years  ago. 
She'll  soon  outgrow  them,  as  my  little  one  did, 
for  the  child  'uU  grow  like  grass  i'  May,  bless  it — 
that  it  will.  [Stealing  softly  to  the  couch  and  looking 
at  the  child  as  she  speaks]  Anybody  'ud  think  the 
angils  in  heaven  couldn't  be  prettier.  And  to  think 
of  its  being  covered  wi'  them  dirty  rags — and  the 
poor  mother — froze  to  death;  but  there's  Them  as 
took  care  of  it,  and  brought  it  to  your  door,  Master 
Marner.  The  door  was  open,  and  it  walked  in  over 
the  snow,  like  as  if  it  had  been  a  little  starved 
,  robin.  [Returns  to  her  seat]  Didn't  you  say  the  door 
was  open? 

Silas.  [Meditatively]  Yes — yes  —  the  door  was  open. 
The  money's  gone  I  don't  know  where,  [looking  sadly 
at  the  hole  in  the  hearth]  and  this  is  come  from  I  don't 
know  where. 

His  face  lights  up  as  he  looks  in  the  direction  of  the 
alcove. 


26  Dramatization 


I  Third  Year 


Dolly.  Ah,  it's  like  the  night  and  morning — one  goes 
and  the  other  comes,  and  we  know  nothing  how  nor 
where.  I  think  you're  in  the  right  on  it  to  keej)  the  httle 
'un.  Master  Marner,  seeing  as  it 's  been  sent  to  you,  though 
there's  folks  as  thinks  difiFerent.  You'll  happen  be  a 
bit  moithered  with  it  while  it's  so  little;  but  I'll  come, 
and  welcome  and  see  to  it  for  you:  I've  a  bit  o'  time  to 
spare  most  days,  so,  as  I  say,  I'll  come  and  see  to  the 
child  for  you,  and  welcome. 

Silas.  [Hesitaiingtij]  Thank  you — kindly.  I'll  be  glad 
if  you'll  tell  me  things.  But,  [gets  up  and  goes  to  tJie 
alcove,  stands  by  the  curtains,  loolcs  down  at  the  child  as 
he  talks]  I  want  to  do  things  for  it  myself,  else  it  may 
get  fond  o'  somebody  else,  and  not  fond  o'  me.  I 
can  learn,  I  can  learn.     [Sitting  doivn  again] 

Dolly.  [Gently]  Eh,  to  be  sure.  I've  seen  men  as  are 
wonderful  handy  wi'  children  —  but  what  shall  you  do 
when  you're  forced  to  sit  in  your  loom?  For  she'll  get 
busier  and  mischievouser  every  day  —  she  will,  bless 
her.  And  if  you've  got  anything  as  can  be  split,  or 
broke,  or  as  is  fit  to  cut  her  fingers  off,  she'll  be  at  it  — 
and  it  is  but  right  you  should  know. 

Silas.  [After  meditating  a  moment  in  some  perplexity]  I  '11 
tie  her  to  the  leg  o'  the  loom. 

Dolly.  Well  mayhap  that'll  do,  as  it's  a  little  gell,  for 
they're  easier  persuaded  to  sit  i'  one  place  nor  the  lads. 
I  know  what  the  lads  are  —  and  if  you  was  to  take  and 
tie  'em  up,  they'd  make  a  fighting  and  a  crying  as  if  you 
was  ringing  the  pigs. —  But  [starting  to  go]  I'll  bring 
you  my  little  chair,  and  some  bits  o'  red  rag  and  things  for 
her  to  play  wi'. —  She'll  be  waking  soon.  I'll  hurry  to 
fetch  'em.  [She  starts  toicard  the  door  again,  turns,  and 
laughs]  If  she  should  wake  while  I'm  gone,  you'd  never 
get  those  clothes  on  right,  poor  man. 


Third  Yer.r]  SUttS    Mamcr  27 

Silas.  Perhaps  I  do  need  your  help  now,  just  a  bit. 
[Jealousbj]  But  she'll  be  my  little  'un.  She'll  be 
nobody  else's. 

Dolly.  [.4/  ihe  door]  No,  to  be  sure;  you'll  have  a  right 
to  her,  if  j'ou  're  a  father  to  her,  and  bring  her  up  accord- 
ing. [Comhig  hack  a  feiv  steps  and  irith  a  glance  toward 
the  partly  open  door  as  if  afraid  she  would  be  overheard] 
And  it's  my  belief  as  the  poor  little  creature  has  never 
been  christened.  I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Macey  al)out  it  tliis 
very  day. 

Silas.  [Troubled]  What  is  it  you  mean  by  "christened?" 
Won't  folks  be  good  to  her  without  it? 

Dolly.  [Raising  her  hands  in  astonishment  and  falling  into 
a  chair  as  if  overcome  by  Silas's  ignorance]  Dear,  dear! 
Master  Marner.  Had  you  never  no  father  nor  mother 
as  taught  you  to  say  your  prayers,  and  as  there's  good 
words  and  good  things  to  keep  us  from  harm? 

Silas.  [In  a  loiv  voice]  Yes,  I  know  a  deal  about  that  — 
used  to,  used  to.  But  your  ways  are  different;  my 
country  was  a  good  way  off.  [Firmly]  But  I  want  to 
do  whatever 's  right  for  the  child  i'  this  country,  and  you 
think  'ull  do  it  good.     I  '11  act  according,  if  you  '11  tell  me. 

Dolly.  Well  then.  Master  Marner,  I'll  ask  Mr.  Macey 
to  speak  to  the  parson  about  it;  and  you  must  fix  on  a 
name  to  give  it  when  it's  christened. 

Silas.  My  mother's  name  was  Hephzibah,  and  my  little 
sister  was  named  after  her. 

Dolly.  Eh,  that's  a  hard  name.  I  partly  think  it  isn't 
a  christened  name. 

Silas.     [Mildly  resentful]     It's  a  Bible  name! 

Dolly.  Then  I've  no  call  to  speak  again'  it.  But  it  was 
awk'ard  calling  your  little  sister  by  such  a  hard  name 
when  you'd  got  nothing  big  to  say,  like — wasn't  it, 
Master  Marner? 


28  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Silas.     We  called  lier  Eppie. 

Dolly.  Well,  if  it  was  noways  wrong  to  shorten  the  name, 
it  'ud  be  a  deal  handier.  [Gets  up  and  goes  to  take  one 
more  look  at  the  child]  lint  dear  me!  Here  I  am  yet, 
and  the  poor  child  will  wake  np' and  no  one  here  to  dress 
her  but  an  awk'ard  man.  [Hurries  to  the  door]  I'll  be 
back  in  no  time.  We'll  talk  about  the  christening  then! 
Silas  closes  the  door,  and  with  his  hand  still  on  the  door 
knob,  looks  in  the  direction  of  the  sleeping  child,  ds  the  cur- 
tain goes  down. 

Scene  III 
The  Fulfillment 

Characters : 
Eppie. 
Silas. 
Aaron  Winthrop. 

The  time  is  sixteen  years  later.  The  stage  setting  is  the 
same  as  in  the  previous  scene,  except  for  an  air  of  greater 
prosperity,  and  feminine  touches  that  suggest  the  presence  of 
Eppie,  such  as  flowers  in  pots,  a  ivhite  table-cover,  a  icork 
basket,  etc.  Eppie,  Silas,  and  Aaron  are  discovered  as  the 
curtain  rises.  Aaron  stands  in  the  open  doorway  icaiting 
for  an  opportunity  to  make  his  presence  known,  his  eyes 
upon  Eppie,  who  sits  with  her  sewing  in  her  lap,  on  a  low 
chair  close  by  the  large  arm  chair  in  which  Silas  is  comfort- 
ably seated,  pipe  in  hand.  They  are  so  absorbed  in  their 
conversation  that  they  do  not  note  the  presence  of  Aaron,  until 
he  enters  without  formal  greeting  into  the  conversation. 

Eppie.     I  wish  we  had  a  little  garden,  father,  with  double 
daisies  in  it,  like  Mrs.  Winthrop's,  only  they  say  it  'ud 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  29 


take  a  deal  of  digging  and  bringing  fresh  soil — and  you 
couldn't  do  that,  could  you,  father?  Anyhow,  I  shouldn't 
like  you  to  do  it,  for  it  'ud  be  too  hard  work  for  you. 

Silas.  Yes,  I  could  do  it,  child,  if  you  want  a  bit  o'  garden: 
these  long  evenings,  I  could  work  at  taking  in  a  little  bit 
o'  the  waste,  just  enough  for  a  root  or  two  o'  flowers  for 
you;  and  again,  i'  the  morning,  I  could  have  a  turn  wi' 
the  spade  before  I  sat  down  to  the  loom.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  me  before  as  you  wanted  a  bit  o'  garden? 

Aaron.  [Stepping  toward  Silas]  I  can  dig  it  for  you, 
Master  Marner. 

Silas.  [Turning  in  surprise]  Eh,  Aaron,  my  lad,  are  you 
there?  [Eppie  greets  Aaron  with  a  smile,  and  he  sits  down 
on  a  bench  or  chair  opposite  Silas  and  Eppie]  I  wasn't 
aware  of  you ;  for  when  Eppie's  talking  o'  things,  I  see  noth- 
ing but  what  she's  a-saying.  Well,  if  you  could  help  me 
with  the  digging,  we  might  get  her  a  bit  o'  garden  all 
the  sooner. 

Aaron.  It'll  be  play  to  me  after  I've  done  my  day's  work, 
or  any  odd  bits  o'  time  when  the  work's  slack.  And 
I'll  bring  you  some  soil  from  Mr.  Cass's  garden — he'll 
let  me,  and  willing.  If  you  think  well  and  good,  I'll 
come  to  the  Stone-pits  this  afternoon,  and  we'll  settle 
what  land's  to  be  taken  in,  and  I'll  get  up  an  hour 
earlier  i'  the  morning,  and  begin  on  it. 

Eppie.  But  not  if  you  don't  promise  me  not  to  work  at 
the  hard  digging,  father,  for  I  shouldn't  ha'  said  any- 
thing about  it,  [half -bashfully,  half-roguishh/]  only 
Mrs.  Winthrop  said  as  Aaron  'ud  be  so  good,  and  — 

Aaron.  And  you  might  ha'  known  it  without  her  telling 
you.  And  Master  Marner  knows  too,  I  hope,  as  I'm 
able  and  willing  to  do  a  turn  o'  work  for  him,  and  he 
won't  do  me  the  unkindness  to  anyways  take  it  out  o' 
my  hands. 


30  Dramatization  r Third  year 

Eppie.  [Happily]  There,  now,  father,  you  won't  work  in 
it  till  it's  all  easy,  and  you  and  me  can  mark  out  the 
beds  and  make  holes  and  plant  the  roots.  It'll  be  a 
deal  livelier  at  the  Stone-pits  when  we've  got  some 
flowers,  for  I  always  think  the  flowers  can  see  us  and 
know  what  we're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have  a  bit 
of  rosemary,  and  bergamot,  and  thyme,  because  they're 
so  sweet-smelling;  but  there's  no  lavender  only  in  the 
gentlefolks'  gardens,  I  think.     [Wisffidbj] 

Aaron.  That's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  some, 
for  I  can  bring  you  slips  of  anything;  I'm  forced  to  cut 
no  end  of  'em  when  I'm  gardening,  and  I  throw  'em 
away  mostly.  There's  a  big  bed  o'  lavender  at  the  Red 
House;  the  missus  is  very  fond  of  it. 

Silas.  Well,  so  as  you  don't  make  free  for  us,  or  ask  for 
anything  as  is  worth  much  at  the  Red  House;  for  Mr. 
Cass's  been  so  good  to  us,  and  built  us  up  the  new  end 
o'  the  cottage,  and  given  us  beds  and  things,  as  I  couldn't 
abide  to  be  imposin'  for  garden-stuff  or  anything 
else. 

Aaron.  No,  no,  there 's  no  imposin' ;  there's  never  a  garden 
in  all  the  parish  but  what  there's  endless  waste  in  it  for 
want  o'  somebody  as  could  use  everything  up.  It's 
what  I  think  to  myself  sometimes,  as  there  need  nobody 
run  short  o'  victuals  if  the  land  was  made  the  most  on, 
and  there  was  never  a  morsel  but  what  could  find  its 
way  to  a  mouth.  It  sets  one  thinking  o'  that — garden- 
ing does.  But  I  must  go  back  now,  else  mother  'ull  be 
in  trouble  as  I  aren't  there. 

Eppie.  Bring  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  Aaron.  I 
shouldn't  like  to  fix  about  the  garden,  and  her  not  know 
everything  from  the  first — should  you,  father?  [As 
Aaron  reaches  the  door,  Eppie  lays  down  her  sexring,  runs 
to  the  door,  and  takes  Aaron  s  hand]     Oh,  Aaron,  hurry 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  31 


back!  See  if  she  will  not  come  right  away  —  we  must 
begin  the  garden  tomorrow. 

Silas.  Ay,  bring  her  if  you  can,  Aaron,  she's  sure  to  have  a 
word  to  say  as  '11  help  us  to  set  things  on  their  right  end. 

Eppie.  [Running  to  Silas]  ()  daddy!  [Clasps  and  squeezes 
Silas's  arm  and  skips  around  him;  then  dancing  with 
childlike  glee]  My  little  old  daddy!  I'm  so  glad.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  want  anything  else  when  we've  got 
a  little  garden;  and  I  knew  Aaron  would  dig  it  for  us 
[roguishly] — I  knew  that  very  well. 

Silas.  [Smoothing  her  cheek]  You  are  a  deep  little  puss, 
you  are,  but  you  '11  make  yourself  fine  and  beholden 
to  Aaron. 

Eppie.  [Laughitig]  O  no,  I  shan't,  he  likes  it.  [Eppie 
glances  at  the  clock  and  becomes  more  serious]  O  daddy! 
I  must  make  the  house  tidy,  for  god-mother  will  be  com- 
ing soon  —  I'll  make  haste:  [rushes  about  putting  things 
in  order,  then  sits  down  again  on  a  stool  at  Silas's  feet 
with  her  hands  clasped  on  his  knee,  her  face  grave] 
Father,  we  shall  take  the  furze  bush  into  the  garden; 
it'll  come  into  the  corner,  and  just  against  it  I '11  put 
snow-drops  and  crocuses,  'cause  Aaron  says  they  won't 
die  out,  but '11  always  get  more  and  more. 

Silas.  Ay,  child,  it  wouldn't  do  to  leave  out  the  furze 
bush;  and  there's  nothing  prettier  to  my  thinking,  when 
it's  yallow  with  flowers.  But  it's  just  come  into  my 
head  what  we're  to  do  for  a  fence — mayhap  Aaron  can 
help  us  to  a  thought;  but  a  fence  we  must  have,  else  the 
donkeys  and  things  'uU  come  and  tram])le  everything 
down.  And  fencing's  hard  to  be  got  at,  by  what  I  can 
make  out. 

Eppie.  [Clasping  her  Jiands  gayly  after  a  moment's  thought] 
O,  I  '11  tell  you,  daddy,  there's  lots  o'  loose  stones  about, 
some  of  'cm  not  big,  and  we  might  lay  'cm  atop  of  one 


32  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

another,  and  make  a  wall.  You  and  me  could  carry  the 
smallest,  and  Aaron  'ud  carry  the  rest — 1  know  he 
would.     I'll  ask  him. — Why  don't  they  come. 

She  runs  to  the  door  and  looks  out,  then  returns  to  her 
stool. 

Silas.  No,  my  precious  'un,  there  isn't  enough  stones  to 
go  all  round;  and  as  for  you  carrying,  why,  wi'  your  little 
arms  you  couldn't  carry  a  stone  no  bigger  than  a  turnip. 
You're  dillicate  made,  my  dear,  that's  what  Mrs.  Win- 
throp  says. 

Eppie.  [Jumps  up  and  lifts  a  heavy  log  lying  on  the  hearth\ 
See  daddy!     I'm  stronger  than  you  think! 

She  drops  the  log  quickly,  goes  to  Silas,  and  sits  on  one 
arm  of  his  chair. 

Silas.  Nay,  child,  let  us  have  no  more  lifting.  You 
might  hurt  yourself!  [Sighing  sadly]  You  need  have 
somebody  to  work  for  you — and  my  arm  isn't  over- 
strong. 

Eppie.  [Laying  her  hand  on  Silas's  after  a  moment's  silence] 
Father,  if  I  was  to  be  married,  ought  I  to  be  married 
with  my  mother's  ring? 

Silas.  [With  an  almost  imperceptible  start]  Why,  Eppie, 
have  you  been  a-thinking  on  it? 

Eppie.  Only  this  last  week,  father,  since  Aaron  talked  to 
me  about  it. 

Silas.     [Ge7itly]     And  what  did  he  say? 

Eppie.  He  said  he  should  like  to  be  married,  because  he 
was  a-going  in  four-and-twenty,  and  had  got  a  deal  of 
gardening  work,  now  Mr.  Mott's  given  up;  and  he  goes 
twice  a- week  regular  to  Mr.  Cass's,  and  once  to  Mr. 
Osgood's,  and  they're  going  to  take  him  on  at  the 
Rectory. 

Silas.  [With  a  sad  smile]  And  who  is  it  as  he's  wanting  to 
marry  ? 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  33 


Eppie.  [Laughing  and  patting  Silas's  cheek]  Why,  me, 
to  be  sure,  daddy;  as- if  he'd  want  to  marry  anybody 
else! 

She  gets  down  from  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  again  sits  at 
Silas's  feet  with  her  head  on  his  knee,  looking  dreamily 
into  the  distance. 

Silas.     And  you  mean  to  have  him,  do  you? 

Eppie.  Yes,  some  time,  I  don't  know  when.  Everybody's 
married  some  time,  Aaron  says.  But  I  told  him  that 
wasn't  true;  for,  I  said,  look  at  father — he's  never  been 
married.     [Looking  up  at  Silas] 

Silas.  No,  child,  your  father  w^as  a  lone  man  till  you  was 
sent  to  him. 

Eppie.  [Taking  Silas' s  hand  lovingly]  But  you'll  never  be 
lone  again,  father.  That  was  W'hat  Aaron  said — "Icould 
never  think  o'  taking  you  away  from  Master  Marner, 
Eppie."  And  I  said,  "It  'ud  be  no  use  if  you  did,  Aaron." 
And  he  wants  us  all  to  live  together,  so  as  you  needn't 
work  a  bit,  father,  only  what's  for  your  own  pleasure;  and 
he'd  be  as  good  as  a  son  to  you — -that  was  what  he  said. 

Silas.     And  should  you  like  that,  Eppie? 

Eppie.  I  shouldn't  mind  it,  father,  and  I  should  like  things 
to  be  so  as  you  needn't  work  much.  But  if  it  wasn't  for 
that,  I'd  sooner  things  didn't  change.  I'm  very  happy: 
I  like  Aaron  to  be  fond  of  me,  and  come  and  see  us  often, 
and  behave  pretty  to  you  —  he  always  does  behave  pretty 
to  you,  doesn't  he,  father? 

Silas.  [Emphatically]  Yes,  child,  nobody  could  behave 
better.  He's  his  mother's  lad.  [Lays  his  pipe  on  the  floor 
•  as  if  it  were  useless  to  pretend  to  smoke  any  longer]  But,  my 
blessed  child,  you're  o'er  young  to  be  married.  We'll 
ask  Mrs.  Wintlirop — we'll  ask  Aaron's  mother  what  she 
thinks;  if  there's  a  right  thing  to  do,  she'll  come  at  it. 
[Laying  his  hand  on  her  head]     But  there's  this  to  be 


34  Dramatization  [Third  Tear 

tliouglit  on,  Eppic:  things  trill  diange,  whether  we  Hke 
it  or  no;  things  won't  go  on  for  a  long  wliiU'  just  as  they 
are  and  no  difference.  I  sliall  get  ohler  and  helplesser, 
and  I  like  to  think  as  you'd  have  somebody  else  besides 
me — somebody  young  and  strong,  as  'II  outlast  your 
own  life,  and  take  care  on  you  to  the  end. 

Eppijc.  [With  trembling  voice]  Then,  would  you  like  me  to 
be  married,  father? 

Silas.  I'll  not  be  the  man  to  say  no,  Eppie.  But  we'll 
ask  your  god-mother.  She  '11  wish  the  right  thing  by  you 
and  her  son,  too. 

Eppie.  [Running  to  the  door]  There  they  come!  Let  us 
go  and  meet  'em.  Oh,  the  pipe!  won't  you  have  it 
lit  again,  father?     [Lifting  the  pipe  from  the  floor] 

Silas.  [Rising]  Nay,  child,  I've  done  enough  for  today. 
I  think,  mayhap,  a  little  of  it  does  me  more  good  than 
so  much  at  once. 

Curtain 

Scene  IV 

Eppie's  Choice 

Characters : 
Silas.  Godfrey. 

Eppie.        Nancy. 

The  stage  setting  remains  the  same.  The  time  is  even- 
ing. Eppie  is  seated  on  her  stool  at  Silas's  feet,  hold- 
ing both  his  hands  as  she  looks  up  at  him.  On  the  table 
near  them,  lighted  by  a  candle,  is  the  recovered  gold,  arranged 
in  orderly  heaps. 

Silas.  [In  a  subdued  voice]  At  first,  I'd  a  sort  o'  feeling 
come  across  me  now  and  then,  as  if  you  might  be  changed 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  35 


into  the  gold  again;  for  sometimes,  turn  my  head  which 
way  I  would,  I  seemed  to  see  the  gold;  and  I  thought  I 
should  be  glad  if  I  could  feel  it,  and  find  it  was  come 
back.  But  that  didn't  last  long.  After  a  bit,  I  should 
have  thought  it  was  a  curse  come  again,  if  it  had  drove 
you  from  me,  for  I'd  got  to  feel  the  need  o'  your  looks 
and  your  voice  and  the  touch  o'  your  little  fingers. 
You  didn't  know  then,  Eppie,  when  you  were  such  a 
little  'un  —  you  didn't  know  what  your  old  father  Silas 
felt  for  you. 

Eppie.  But  I  know  now,  father.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  they'd  have  taken  me  to  the  workhouse,  and 
there 'd  have  been  nobody  to  love  me. 

Silas.  Eh,  my  precious  child,  the  blessing  was  mine.  If 
you  hadn't  been  sent  to  save  me,  I  should  ha'  gone  to 
the  grave  in  my  misery.  The  money  was  taken  away 
from  me  in  time;  and  you  see  it's  been  kept — kept  till 
it  was  wanted  for  you.  It's  wonderful  —  our  life  is 
wonderful.  [Looking  meditatively  at  the  gold,  and  reaching 
Old  his  hand  to  touch  it]  It  takes  no  hold  of  me  now,  the 
money  doesn't.  I  wonder  if  it  ever  could  again — I 
doubt  it  might,  if  I  lost  you,  Eppie.  I  might  come  to 
think  I  was  forsaken  again,  and  lose  the  feeling  that  God 
was  good  to  me. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupts  the  conversation.  Eppie 
goes  to  the  door,  and  admits  Godfrey  and  Nancy.  Eppie 
makes  an  embarrassed  curtsy.  Silas  rises  aivkivardly, 
ill  at  ease  in  the  presence  of  his  "betters." 

Nancy.     We're  disturbing  you  very  late,  my  dear. 

Eppie  places  chairs  for  Godfrey  and  Xancy,  then  stands 
leaning  against  Silas's  chair,  as  he  sits  doicn  opposite 
them. 

Godfrey.  [Trying  to  speak  calmly]  Well,  ]Marner,  it's  a 
great  comfort  to  me  to  sec  ycu  with  your  money  again. 


36  Dramatization  [Third  year 

that  you've  been  deprived  of  so  many  years.  It  was 
one  of  my  family  did  you  the  wrong — the  more  grief  to 
me  —  and  I  feel  bound  to  make  up  to  you  for  it  in  every 
way.  Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  will  be  nothing  but 
paying  a  debt,  even  if  I  looked  no  further  than  the 
robbery.  But  there  are  other  things  I'm  beholden — 
shall  be  beholden  to  you  for,  Marner. 

Silas.  [With  dignity]  Sir,  I've  a  deal  to  thank  you  for 
a'ready.  As  for  the  robbery,  I  count  it  no  loss  to  me. 
And  if  I  did,  you  couldn't  help  it:  you  aren't  answerable 
for  it. 

Godfrey.  You  may  look  at  it  that  way,  Marner,  but  I 
never  can;  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  act  according  to  my 
own  feeling  of  what's  just.  I  know  you're  easily  con- 
tented: you've  been  a  hard-working  man  all  your  life. 

Silas.  [Meditatively]  Yes,  sir,  yes,  I  should  ha'  been  bad 
off  without  my  work:  it  was  what  I  held  by  when  every- 
thing else  was  gone  from  me. 

Godfrey.  Ah,  it  was  a  good  trade  for  you  in  the  country, 
because  there's  been  a  great  deal  of  linen-weaving  to  be 
done.  But  you're  getting  rather  past  such  close  work, 
Marner:  it's  time  you  laid  by  and  had  some  rest.  You 
look  a  good  deal  pulled  down,  though  you're  not  an  old 
man,  are  you? 

Silas.     Fifty-five,  as  near  as  I  can  say,  sir. 

Godfrey.  O,  why,  you  may  live  thirty  years  longer — 
look  at  old  Macey !  And  that  money  on  the  table,  after 
all,  is  but  little.  It  won't  go  far  either  way  —  whether 
it's  put  out  to  interest,  or  you  were  to  live  on  it  as  long 
as  it  would  last:  it  wouldn't  go  far  if  you'd  nobody  to 
keep  but  yourself,  and  you've  had  two  to  keep  for  a 
good  many  years  now. 

Silas.  Eh,  sir,  I'm  in  no  fear  o'want.  We  shall  do  very 
well — Eppie  and  me  'ull  do  well  enough.     There's  few 


Third  Year] 


Silas  Marner  37 


working-folks  have  got  so  much  laid  by  as  that.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  gentlefolks,  but  I  look  upon  it  as  a 
deal — almost  too  much.  And  as  for  us,  it's  little  we 
want — 

Eppie.     [Interrupting]     Only  the  garden,  father. 

Nancy.  You  love  a  garden,  do  you,  my  dear?  We 
should  agree  in  that;  I  give  a  deal  of  time  to  the  garden. 

Godfrey.  You've  done  a  good  part  by  Eppie,  Marner, 
for  sixteen  years.  It'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  see 
her  well  provided  for,  wouldn't  it?  She  looks  blooming 
and  healthy,  but  not  fit  for  any  hardships;  she  doesn't 
look  like  a  strapping  girl  come  of  working  parents. 
You'd  like  to  see  her  taken  care  of  by  those  who  can 
leave  her  well  off,  and  make  a  lady  of  her;  she's  more  fit 
for  it  than  for  a  rough  life,'  such  as  she  might  come  to 
have  in  a  few  years'  time. 

Silas.     [Wonderingly]     I  don't  take  your  meaning,  sir. 

Godfrey.  Well,  my  meaning  is  this,  Marner.  Mrs.  Cass 
and  I,  you  know,  have  no  children — nobody  to  be  the 
better  for  our  good  home  and  everything  else  we  have  — 
more  than  enough  for  ourselves.  And  we  should  like 
to  have  somebody  in  the  place  of  a  daughter  to  us  —  we 
should  like  to  have  Ei)pie,  and  treat  her  in  every  way  as 
our  own  child.  It'ud  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  in  your 
old  age,  I  hope,  to  see  her  fortune  made  in  that  way, 
after  you've  been  at  the  trouble  of  bringing  her  up  so 
well.  And  it's  right  you  should  have  every  reward  for 
that.  And  Eppie,  I'm  sure,  will  always  love  you  and 
be  grateful  to  you:  she'd  come  and  see  you  very  often, 
and  we  should  all  be  on  the  look-out  to  do  everything 
toward  making  you  comfortable. 

During  this  speech  Eppie  quietly  passes  her  arm 
behind  Silas's  head,  and  lets  her  hand  rest  against  it 
caressingly. 


38  Dramatization  [Twrd  Year 

Silas.  [Lifts  his  head  vnth  an  effort  and  speaks  faintly] 
Ei)pic,  my  child,  si)cak.  I  won't  stand  in  your  way. 
Thank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  C:ass. 

Eppik.  [Takes  her  hand  from  Silas's  head,  comes  for- 
ward a  step,  drops  a  Uno  curtsy,  first  to  Nancy,  then  to 
Godfrey]  Thank  you  ma'am — tliank  you,  sir.  But 
I  can't  leave  my  father,  nor  own  anybody  nearer  than 
him.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  a  lady  —  thank  you  all 
the  same.  [Drops  another  curtsy]  I  couldn't  give  up 
the  folks  I  've  been  used  to. 

She  goes  bach  to  Silas's  chair  and  puts  her  arms  about 
his  neck.  Silas,  with  a  subdued  sob,  takes  her  hand. 
Nancy  looks  distressed,  Godfrey,  irritated. 

Godfrey.  [Agitated — someichat  angrily]  But  I've  a  claim 
on  you,  Eppie  —  the  strongest  of  all  claims.  It's  my 
duty,  Marner,  to  own  Eppie  as  my  child,  and  provide 
for  her.  She's  my  own  child:  her  mother  was  my  wife. 
I  've  a  natural  claim  on  her  that  must  stand  before  every 
other. 

Eppie   starts   violently.     Silas   straightens  himself  up. 

Silas.  [Indignantly]  Then,  sir,  why  didn't  you  say  so 
sixteen  year  ago,  and  claim  her  before  I'd  come  to  love 
her,  i'stead  o 'coming  to  take  her  from  me  now,  when 
you  might  as  well  take  the  heart  out  o'  my  body.'  God 
gave  her  to  me  because  you  turned  your  back  upon  her, 
and  He  looks  upon  her  as  mine;  you've  no  right  to  her! 
When  a  man  turns  a  blessing  from  his  door,  it  falls  to 
them  as  take  it  in. 

Godfrey.  I  know  that,  Marner.  I  was  wrong.  I've 
repented  of  my  conduct  in  that  matter. 

Silas.  [With  increasing  excitement]  I'm  glad  to  hear  it, 
sir,  but  repentance  doesn't  alter  what 's  been  going  on  for 
sixteen  year.  Your  coming  now  and  saying,  "I'm  her 
father,"  doesn't  alter   the   feelings  inside   us.     It's  me 


TMrd  Year] 


Silas  Marner  39 


she 's  been  calling  her  father  ever  since  she  could  say  the 
word.     [Rising  and  confruntiny  Godfrey] 

Godfrey.  But  I  think  you  might  look  at  the  thing  more 
reasonably,  Marner.  [Eppie  draws  Silas  gently  back  into 
his  chair.  Godfrey  taps  the  floor  nervously  with  his  stick] 
It  isn't  as  if  she  was  to  be  taken  quite  away  from  you, 
so  that  you'd  never  see  her  again.  She'll  be  very  near 
you  and  come  to  see  you  very  often.  She'll  feel  just 
the  same  toward  you. 

Silas.  Just  the  same?  How '11  she  feel  just  the  same  for 
me  as  she  does  now,  when  we  eat  o'  the  same  bit,  and 
drink  o'  the  same  cup,  and  think  o'  the  same  things 
from  one  day's  end  to  another?  Just  the  same?  that's 
idle  talk.     You'd  cut  us  i'  two. 

Godfrey.  [Rises  and  walks  up  and  down  with  impatience] 
I  should  have  thought,  ^Nlarner,  —  I  should  have  thought 
your  affection  for  Eppie  would  make  you  rejoice  in  what 
was  for  her  good,  even  if  it  did  call  upon  you  to  give  up 
something.  You  ought  to  remember  your  own  life's 
uncertain,  and  she's  at  an  age  now  when  her  lot  may 
soon  be  fixed  in  a  Avay  very  different  from  what  it  would 
be  in  her  father's  home;  she  may  marry  some  low  work- 
ing-man, and  then,  whatever  I  might  do  for  her,  I 
couldn't  make  her  well-off.  You're  putting  yourself 
in  the  way  of  her  welfare;  and  though  I'm  sorrry  to 
hurt  you  after  what  you've  done,  and  what  I've  left 
undone,  I  feel  now  it's  my  duty  to  insist  on  taking  care 
of  my  own  daughter.     I  want  to  do  my  duty. 

Silas.  [After  a  momenCs  silence,  with  trembling  voice]  I'll 
say  no  more.  Let  it  be  as  you  will.  Speak  to  the  child. 
I'll  hinder  nothing. 

Godfrey.  [IVith  more  confidence  but  some  embarrassment] 
Eppie,  my  dear,  it  '11  always  be  our  wish  that  you  should 
show  your  lo^e  and  gratitude  to  one  who's  been  a  father 


40  Draiaatization 


[Third  Year 


to  you  so  many  years,  and  we  shall  want  to  help  you  to 
make  him  comt'orlable  in  every  way.  But  we  hope 
you'll  come  to  love  us  as  well;  and  though  I  haven't 
been  what  a  father  should  ha'  been  to  you  all  these  years, 
I  wish  to  do  the  utmost  in  my  power  for  you  for  the  rest 
of  my  life,  and  provide  for  you  as  my  only  child.  And 
you'll  have  the  best  of  mothers  in  my  wife  —  that'll  be 
a  blessing  you  haven't  known  since  you  were  old  enough 
to  know  it. 

Nancy.  My  dear,  you'll  be  a  treasure  to  me.  We  shall 
want  for  nothing  when  we  have  our  daughter. 

Eppie  grasps  Silas's  hand  firmly,  straightens  up  with 
great  dignity,  and  speaks  coldly. 

Eppie.  Thank  you  ma'am — thank  you,  sir,  for  your 
offers — they're  very  great,  and  far  above  my  wish. 
For  I  should  have  no  delight  i'  life  any  more  if  I  was 
forced  to  go  away  from  my  father  and  knew  he  was 
sitting  at  home,  a-thinking  of  me  and  feeling  lone. 
We've  been  used  to  be  happy  together  every  day,  and 
I  can't  think  o'  no  happiness  without  him.  And  he  says 
he'd  nobody  i'  the  world  till  I  was  sent  to  him,  and  he'd 
have  nothing  when  I  was  gone.  And  he's  took  care  of 
me  and  loved  me  from  the  first,  and  I  '11  cleave  to  him  as 
long  as  he  lives,  and  nobody  shall  ever  come  between 
him  and  me. 

She  sits  on  the  arm  of  Silas's  chair  and  puts  her  arm 
about  his  heck. 

Silas.  But  you  must  make  sure,  Eppie,  you  must  make 
sure  as  you  won't  ever  be  sorry,  because  you've  made 
your  choice  to  stay  among  poor  folks,  and  with  poor 
clothes  and  things,  when  you  might  ha'  had  everything 
o'  the  best. 

Eppie.  I  can  never  be  sorry,  father.  I  shouldn't  know 
what  to  think  on  or  to  wish  for  with  fine  things  about  me 


Third  Year]  SUttS    MameV  41 

as  I  haven't  been  used  to.  And  it  'ud  be  poor  work  for 
me  to  put  on  things,  and  ride  in  a  gig,  and  sit  in  a  j)lace 
at  church,  as  'ud  make  them  as  I'm  fond  of  thiak  me 
unfitting  company  for  'em.  What  could  /  care  for  then? 
Nancy  looks  at  Godfrey,  with  a  pained,  questioning 
glance.  Godfrey's  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  floor.  He  moves 
the  end  of  his  stick  as  if  pondering  absently. 

Nancy.  What  you  say  is  natural,  my  dear  child — it's 
natural  you  should  cling  to  those  who've  brought  you 
up,  but  there's  a  duty  you  owe  to  your  lawful  father. 
There's  perhaps  something  to  be  given  up  on  more  sides 
than  one.  When  your  father  opens  his  home  to  you,  I 
think  it's  right  you  shouldn't  turn  your  back  on  it. 

Eppie.  [Rises  and  speaks  impetuously]  I  can't  feel  as 
I've  got  any  father  but  one.  I've  always  thought  of  a 
little  home  where  he'd  sit  i'  the  corner,  and  I  should 
fend  and  do  everything  for  him:  I  can't  think  o'  no 
other  home.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  be  a  lady,  and  I 
can't  turn  my  mind  to  it.  I  like  the  working  folks,  and 
their  victuals,  and  their  ways.  And — I'm  promised  to 
marry  a  working-man,  as  '11  live  with  father,  and  help 
me  to  take  care  of  him. 

Godfrey.  [Looking  up  at  Nancy  with  a  distressed  face] 
Let  us  go. 

He  rises  and  goes  to  the  door  abruptly. 

Nancy.  [Rising]  We  won't  talk  of  this  any  longer  now. 
We're  your  well-wishers,  my  dear — and  yours,  too, 
Marner.  We  shall  come  and  see  you  again.  It's 
getting  late  now. 

She  hurries  after  her  husband.     When  the  door  closes, 
Eppie  resumes  her  seat  on  the  stool  at  Silas's  feet.     He 
rests  his  hand  lovingly  on  her  head. 
Curtain 


42  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

TALES   OF  A    WAYSTDE  INN 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

PUKFATOUY    NOTE 

Longfellow's  Prelude  to  the  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  like  Chaucer's 
Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  offers  the  opportunity  for  a  unique 
type  for  dramatization.  As  in  the  case  of  the  Prologue,  the  first  scene 
liere  presents  a  series  of  stage  pictures  or  groupings  of  characters;  hut 
unlike  the  situation  in  the  Prologue,  when  the  curtain  rises,  the  guests 
are  all  assembled.  The  Reader  stands  far  forward  to  one  side,  and 
while  he  reads  the  description  of  the  character,  the  Landlord,  in  some 
way,  singles  out  the  person  who  is  being  described  and  makes  him  the 
center  of  interest  for  the  moment.  Hints  for  staging  are  contained  in 
the  first  part  of  the  Prelude.  The  Reader  opens  with  the  description  of 
the  happy  group.  He  then  sketches  each  character,  beginning  with 
the  Landlord.  Only  very  minor  changes  in  the  text  are  necessary.  The 
descriptions  are  all  abridged  more  or  less;  the  expository  and  narrative 
bits  are  turned  into  stage  directions;  and  an  occasional  word  is  changed 
or  line  invented. 

In  the  second  scene,  the  Landlord,  the  Musician,  and  the  Poet  en- 
tertain the  guests  with  tales  much  condensed,  as  the  occasion  requires. 
The  various  Interludes  throughout  the  Tales  furnish  the  source  for 
the  dialogue,  but  single  lines  and  groups  of  lines  must  sometimes  be 
invented  to  make  the  connection  clear  between  passages  which  are 
condensed  and  to  conform  to  rhythm  and  rhyme. 

For  the  successful  impersonation  of  the  Musician  it  is,  of  course, 
necessary  that  the  boy  taking  the  part  shall  be  able  to  play  the  violin. 
But  in  most  high  schools  such  a  boy  can  be  found.  If  desired,  how- 
ever, another  tale  can  be  substituted  for  the  parts  of  the  Olaf  Saga  here 
used.     Additions  to  the  stories,  or  cuts,  may  be  made  at  pleasure. 

Scene  I 

The  Squire's  Guests 

Characters : 
The  Landlord.  The  Spanish  Jeiv. 

The  Student.  The  Theologian. 

The  Sicilian.  The  Poet. 

The  Musician. 


mirdYear]  Tcilcs  of  CI  Way  Side  Inn  43 

The  scene  presents  the  parlor  of  a  New  England  inn 
of  seventy  years  ago.  The  sign  of  the  Red  Horse  indicates 
the  name  of  the  inn.  The  time  is  evening.  The  Landlord's 
coat-of-arms  is  conspicuously  displayed  on  the  ivall.  Many 
guests,  busy  over  the  teacups,  are  seated  at  small  tables,  on 
each  of  which  is  a  lighted  candle,  and  various  tea  things. 
Others  stand  before  the  open  fireplace,  ivhich  is  piled  with 
blazing  logs.  The  Landlord  moves  about  from  group  to  group 
dispensing  good  cheer  and  merriment.  The  Musician,  from 
time  to  time,  plays  snatches  of  old  airs  on  his  violin. 

Reading 

Around  the  fireside  at  their  ease 
There  sat  a  group  of  friends,  entranced 
With  the  delicious  melodies; 
Who  from  the  far-off  noisy  town 
Had  to  the  wayside  inn  come  down. 
To  rest  beneath  its  old  oak-trees. 
The  fire-light  on  their  faces  glanced, 
Their  shadows  on  the  wainscot  danced. 
And,  though  of  different  lands  and  speech, 
Each  had  his  tale  to  tell,  and  each 
Was  anxious  to  be  pleased  and  please. 
And  while  the  sweet  musician  plays. 
Let  me  in  outline  sketch  them  all. 
Perchance  uncouthly  as  the  blaze 
With  its  uncertain  touch  portrays 
Their  shadowy  semblance  on  the  wall. 

And  first  the  Landlord  will  I  trace; 

Grave  in  his  aspect  and  attire; 

A  man  of  ancient  pedigree, 

A  Justice  of  the  Peace  was  he. 

Known  in  all  Sudbury  as  "The  Squire." 


44  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Proud  was  he  of  liis  name  and  race, 
Of  Old  Sir  William  and  Sir  Hugh, 
And  in  the  parlor,  full  in  view. 
His  coat-of-arms,  Avell  framed  and  glazed, 
Upon  the  wall  in  colors  blazed. 

A  youth  was  there,  of  cjuiet  ways, 
A  Student  of  old  books  and  days. 
To  whom  all  tongues  and  lands  were  known, 
And  yet  a  lover  of  his  own; 
With  many  a  social  virtue  graced. 
Yet  solitude  he  oft  embraced. 
Books  were  his  passion  and  delight. 
And  in  his  upper  room  at  home 
Stood  many  a  rare  and  sumptuous  tome. 
In  vellum  bound,  with  gold  bedight. 
Great  volumes  garmented  in  white, 
Recalling  Florence,  Pisa,  Rome. 

A  young  Sicilian,  too,  was  there; 
In  sight  of  Etna  born  and  bred. 
Some  breath  of  its  volcanic  air 
Was  glowing  in  his  heart  and  brain. 
And  being  rebellious  to  his  liege, 
After  Palermo's  fatal  siege. 
Across  the  western  seas  he  fled, 
In  good  King  Bomba's  happy  reign. 
His  face  was  like  a  summer  night. 
All  flooded  with  a  dusky  light; 
His  hands  were  small;  his  teeth  shone  white; 
Clean  shaven  was  he  as  a  priest, 
Who  at  the  mass  on  Sunday  sings. 
Save  that  upon  his  upper  lip 
His  beard,  a  good  palm's  length  at  least. 


Third  Year]  TttUs  of  a  Wajjside  Inn  45 

Level  and  pointed  at  the  tip, 
Shot  sideways,  hke  a  swallow's  wings. 
The  poets  read  he  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  most  of  all  the  Immortal  Four. 

A  Spanish  Jew  from  Alicant 
With  aspect  grand  and  grave  was  there; 
Vender  of  silks  and  fabrics  rare, 
And  attar  of  rose  from  the  Levant. 
Like  an  old  Patriarch  he  appeared, 
Abraham,  or  Isaac,  or  at  least 
Some  later  Prophet  or  High-Priest; 
With  lustrous  eyes,  and  olive  skin. 
And,  wildly  tossed  from  cheeks  and  chin, 
The  tumbling  cataract  of  his  beard. 
There  was  a  mystery  in  his  looks; 
His  eyes  seemed  gazing  far  away. 
As  if  in  vision  or  in  trance 
He  heard  the  solemn  sackbut  play. 
And  saw  the  Jewish  maidens  dance, 
Just  as  we  read  in  ancient  books. 

A  Theologian,  from  the  school 
Of  Cambridge  on  the  Charles,  was  there; 
Skillful  alike  with  tongue  and  pen, 
He  preached  to  all  men  everywhere 
The  Gospel  of  the  Golden  Rule, 
The  New  Commandment  given  to  men, 
Thinking  the  deed,  and  not  the  creed. 
Would  help  us  in  our  utmost  need. 

A  Poet,  too,  was  there,  whose  verse 
Was  tender,  musical,  and  terse; 
The  inspiration,  the  delight, 


46  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

The  gleam,  the  gh)ry,  the  swift  flight, 
Of  thouglits  so  sudden,  that  they  seem 
The  revelations  of  a  dream. 
All  these  were  his;  but  with  them  came 
No  envy  of  another's  fame. 

Last  the  Musician,  as  he  stood 
Illumined  by  that  fire  of  wood; 
Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  his  aspect  blithe, 
His  figure  tall  and  straight  and  lithe, 
And  every  feature  of  his  face 
Revealing  his  Norwegian  race; 
A  radiance,  streaming  from  wathin, 
Around  his  eyes  and  forehead  beamed, 
The  Angel  with  the  violin. 
Painted  by  Raphael,  he  seemed. 
The  instrument  on  which  he  played 
Was  in  Cremona's  workshops  made, 
By  a  great  master  of  the  art. 
Perfect  in  each  minutest  part; 
And  in  its  hollow  chamber,  thus, 
The  maker  from  whose  hands  it  came 
Had  w^ritten  his  unrivalled  name, — 
"Antonius  Stradivarius." 
The  Reader  retires. 

Curtain 

Scene  II 
Fireside  Tales 

The    curtain    rises    on    the    same    scene    and    characters. 
The  Landlord  steps  forward  and  speaks  to  his  guests. 
The  Landlord. 

Let  the  Musician  now  draw^  forth 

Sweet  notes  as  for  a  short  prelude, 


Third  Year]  TuUs  of  u  Wayside  Inn  47 

To  tune  us  to  the  story  mood. 
Some  snatch  of  song  from  out  the  north 
Some  melody,  some  cadence  pure, 
Something  by  way  of  overture. 

The  Musician  jylaya.  The  guests  are  spell-hound. 
There  is  silence  for  a  moment  after  the  music  ceases;  then 
loud  applause.  The  guests  then  crowd  around  the  Land- 
lord as  the  Poet  speaks. 

The  Poet. 

Now  let  us  hear  the  Landlord's  tale, 
The  story  promised  us  of  old. 
Promised  but  always  left  untold; 
Excuse  is  now  of  no  avail. 

The  Landlord.     [Yielding]     Well — 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 
Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

The  Student. 

That  famous  day  and  year,  mine  Host, 
Is  celebrated  far  and  near. 
In  ballad,  story,  song,  and  toast. — 
But  tell  us  more  of  Paul  Revere. 

The  Landlord.     [Continuing] 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  tonight. 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light, — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea; 
And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be. 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm. 
For  the  country-folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm.'' 


4S  Dramatization 


[Third  Year 


Then  he  said,  "Good  night!"  and  with  mufHed  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore. 
Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears. 
Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door. 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, — 

And  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 

Where  the  ri\er  widens  to  meet  the  bay, — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 
He  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 
And  lo!  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfrj^'s  height 
A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light! 
He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark. 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet; 

That  was  all!   And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the  light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed,  in  his  flight. 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 


Third  Yeari  Tcilcs  of  a  Way  Side  Inn  49 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door. 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need. 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere. 

[As  the  Landlord  ends  his  tale,  he  rises  and  takes  doivn 
from  the  wall  the  sword  that  hung  there  "dim  icith  rust.'] 
Children,  this  sword  was  in  the  fight! 

All  gather  around  him  with  interest. 
The  Poet.     [  Taking  the  sword  from  the  Landlord] 
It  is  the  sword  of  a  good  knight 
Whose  deeds  our  annals  should  record. 

[He  turns  and  addresses  the  Landlord.] 
Your  ancestor,  who  bore  this  sword 
As  Colonel  of  the  Volunteers, 
Mounted  upon  his  old  gray  mare. 
Seen  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
To  me  a  grander  shape  appears 
Than  old  Sir  William,  or  what  not, 
Clinking  about  in  foreign  lands 
With  iron  gauntlets  on  his  hands. 
And  on  his  head  an  iron  pot! 

All  laugh  except  the  Landlord,  as  they  resume  their  seats. 
He  looks  puzzled,  is  about  to  speak,  but  is  prevented  by  the 
Student. 
The  Student.     [With  careless  ease] 
Now  listen  to  the  tale  I  bring! 
Of  ladies  and  of  cavaliers. 
Of  arms,  of  love,  of  courtesies, 


50  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Of  deeds  of  high  emprise,  I  sing! 

Only  a  tale  of  love  is  mine, 

Blending  the  human  and  divine, 

A  tale  of  the  Deeameron,  told 

In  Palmieri's  garden  old. 
The  Theologian.     [Scornfully] 

These  stories  of  such  great  renown 

From  the  much-praised  Decameron  down 

Through  all  the  rabble  of  the  rest, 

Are  scandalous  chronicles  at  best! 

They  seem  to.  me  .a  stagnant  fen, 

Grown  rank  with  rushes  and  with  reeds, 

Where  a  white  lily,  now  and  then. 

Blooms  in  the  midst  of  noxious  weeds 

And  deadly  nightshade  on  its  banks. 
The  Student.     [Sarcastically] 

For  the  white  lily,  many  thanks-! 

It  were  not  grateful  to  forget, 

That  from  these  reservoirs  and  tanks 

Even  imperial  Shakespeare  drew 

His  Moor  of  Venice  and  the  Jew, 

And  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
The  Theologian. 

Let  us  not  hear  the  tale  you  sing. 

Until  we  know  what  others  bring. 

We  cannot  listen  now  to  all, 

The  time  is  short;  the  hour  grows  late; 

We'll  see  what  each  one  can  recall. 

But  most  of  us  will  have  to  wait 

Another  evening  by  the  fire, 

Another  supper  with  the  Squire. — 

The  Squire  shall  choose  which  pleasant  rhyme 

We'll  hear  tonight  before  bed  time. 


Third  Year]  Tttlcs  of  tt  Waysidc  Iiin  51 

One  of  the  guests  rises,  and  jjlaces  a  chair  in  a  con- 
spicuous   position.     Then    the    Strident    approaches    the 

Landlord,  and  conducts  him  to  the  seat  of  honor  as  the  others 

group  themselves  around  the  Landlord' s  chair. 
The  Student.      [Looking  round  at  the  guests,  as  he  walks 

with  the  Landlord] 

We  're  all  agreed,  I  m  sure.    [  To  the  Landlord]    Sit  here, 

We  wait  your  pleasure  with  good  cheer. 
The  Landlord.     [Bowing  as  he  takes  his  seat] 

I  thank  you,  friends. — Your  tales  begin: 

Things  yet  to  be,  or  what  has  been, — 

A  song,  a  tale,  a  history. 

Or  whatsoever  it  may  be, — 

A  melody  without  a  name. 

Or  some  old  legend  bright  with  fame. 

In  order  name  your  tales.     Will  you? — ■ 

What  is  your  story,  Spanish  Jew? 
The  Spanish  Jew. 

A  story  in  the  Talmud  told,     . 

That  book  of  gems,  that  book  of  gold, 

Of  wonders  many  and  manifold, 

A  tale  that  often  makes  me  sigh 

And  fills  my  heart,  and  haunts  my  brain. 

And  never  wearies  nor  grows  old; 

A  story  rarely  told  in  vain. 

The  tale  of  Rabbi  ben  Levi. 
The  Landlord. 

And  you,  Sicilian? 
The  Sicill\n. 

While  you  spoke. 

Suddenly  in  my  memory  woke 

The  thought  of  one,  now  gone  from  us, — 

An  old  Abate,  meek  and  mild. 

My  friend  and  teacher,  when  a  child. 


52  Dramatization  [Third  Tear 

^^^^o  .somctimos  in  those  flays  of  old 

The  legend  of  an  Angel  told, 

Which  ran,  if  I  remember,  thus — - 
The  Landlord.     [Inlerrupting] 

Later  we'll  listen,  not  tonight. — 

Musician,  give  your  fancy  range, 

And  we  will  follow  in  its  flight. 

Tell  something  marvelous  and  strange. 
The  Musician. 

There  is,  my  Squire,  a  wondrous  book 

Of  Legends  in  the  old  Norse  tongue. 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway, — 

Legends  that  once  were  told  or  sung 

In  many  a  smoky  fireside  nook 

Of  Iceland,  in  the  ancient  day, 

By  wandering  Saga-man  or  Scald; 

Heimskringla  is  the  volume  called; 

And  he  who  looks  may  find  tlierein 

My  story.     Shall  I  now  begin? 
The  Landlord. 

Yes,  sing  your  song  of  olden  times. 

With  strange  and  antiquated  rhymes. 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Norroway, 

Of  Iceland  in  the  ancient  day. 

And  soften  all  the  accents  crude 

With  music  of  an  interlude. 
The  Musician. 

King  Olaf  and  Earl  Sigvald 

On  the  gray  sea-sands 
King  Olaf  stands, 
Northward  and  seaward 
H*e  points  with  his  hands. 

With  eddy  and  whirl 
The  sea-tides  curl, 


Third  Year]  Tcihs    of   tt    WaySlde    luTl  53 

Washing  the  sandals 
Of  Sigvald  the  Earl. 

The  mariners  shout, 
The  ships  swing  about, 
The  yards  are  all  hoisted, 
The  sails  flutter  out. 

The  war-horns  are  played, 
The  anchors  arc  weighed. 
Like  moths  in  the  distance. 
The  sails  flit  and  fade. 

The  sea  is  like  lead, 
The  harbor  lies  dead. 
As  a  corse  on  the  sea-shore, 
Whose  spirit  has  fled! 

[He  plays  an  interlude  of  an  old  Norse  air — strains  from 
Grieg's  Norwegian  Folk-Songs  or  Peer  Gynt  would  he  suitable. 
The  music  is  weird  and  wild.      Then  he  continues.] 

On  that  fatal  day. 
The  histories  sa3% 
Seventy  vessel.'^ 
Sailed  out  of  the  bay. 

But  soon  scattered  wide 
O'er  the  billows  thev  ride. 
While  Sigvald  and  Olaf 
Sail  side  by  side. 

Cried  the  Earl:  "Follow  me! 
I  your  pilot  will  be. 
For  I  know  all  the  channels 
Where  flows  the  deep  sea!" 

So  into  the  strait 
Where  his  foes  lie  in  wait. 
Gallant  King  Olaf 
Sails  to  his  fate! 


54  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Tlien  the  sca-foff  veils 
The  ships  and  llieir  sails; 
Queen  Sigrid  the  Ilauf^hty, 
Thy  vengeance  prevails! 

At  the  conclusion  he  'plays  again.  When  he  stops,  the 
guests  crowd  around  him  and  congratulate  him.  They  resume 
their  seats  as  the  Theologian  speaks. 

The  Theologian. 

Landlord,  I  now  recall  a  tale, 

So  sad  the  hearer  well  may  quail, 

And  (juestion  if  such  things  can  be. 

'Tis  from  the  chronicles  of  Spain, 

Down  whose  dark  pages  runs  this  stain. 

And  naught  can  wash  them  white  again, 

So  fearful  is  the  tragedy. 
The  Student  [Somewhat  spitefulhj]. 

In  such  a  company  as  this, 

A  tale  so  tragic  seems  amiss. 

The  Italian  tales  that  you  disdain. 

From  one  of  the  Immortal  Four, 

Would  cheer  us  and  delight  us  more. 

Give  greater  pleasure  and  less  pain 

Than  your  grim  tragedies  of  Spain! 
The  Poet  [Rising  and  stepping  before  the  Landlord]. 

Landlord,  the  story  /  shall  tell 

Has  meaning  in  it,  if  not  mirth; 

Listen,  and  hear  what  once  befell 

The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth. 
The  Landlord. 

Right  willingly  we  '11  hear  you  tell. 

With  mingled  seriousness  and  mirth. 

Of  what  once  on  a  time  befell 

The  merry  birds  of  Killingworth. — 


Third  Year]  Tcilcs  of  a  Wuyside  luTi  55 

The  last  one,  though,  this  tale  must  be 
Tonight,  for  now  'tis  growing  late; 
The  others  you  must  save  for  me. 
Now  tell  your  tale,  nor  longer  wait. 

The  Poet. 

The  Birds  of  Killingworth 

It  was  the  season,  when  through  all  the  land 
The  merle  and  mavis  build,  and  l)uilding  sing 
Those  lovelj^  lyrics,  written  by  His  hand, 
Whom  Saxon  Ca^dmon  calls  the  JJlithe-heart  King. 

The  robin  and  the  blue-bird,  piping  loud. 
Filled  all  the  blossoming  orchards  witli  their  glee; 
The  sparrows  chirped  as  if  they  still  were  i)roud 
Their  race  in  Holy  Writ  should  mentioned  be; 
And  hungry  crows  assembled  in  a  crowd. 
Clamored  their  piteous  prayer  incessantly 
Knowing  who  hears  the  ravens  cry,  and  said: 
"Give  us,  O  Lord,  this  day  our  daily  bread!" 

Thus  came  the  jocund  Spring  in  Killingworth, 

In  fabulous  days,  some  hundred  years  ago; 

And  thrifty  farmers,  as  they  tilled  the  earth, 

Heard  with  alarm  the  cawing  of  the  crow. 

That  mingled  with  the  universal  mirth, 

Cassandra-like,  prognosticating  woe; 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  doomed  with  dreadful  words 

To  swift  destruction  the  whole  race  of  birds. 

And  a  town-meeting  was  convened  straightway 
To  set  a  price  upon  the  guilty  heads 
Of  these  marauders,  who,  in  lieu  of  pay. 
Levied  black-mail  upon  the  garden  beds, 
And  corn-fields,  and  l>eheld  without  dismay 
The  awful  scarecrow,  with  his  fluttering  shreds. 

Then  from  his  house,  a  temple  painted  white, 
With  fluted  columns,  and  a  roof  of  red. 
The  Scjuire  came  forth,  august  and  splendid  sight! 
Slowly  descending,  with  majestic  tread. 


56  Dramatization  [Third  Tear 

The  Parson,  too,  appeared,  a  man  austere, 
The  instinct  of  whose  nature  was  to  kill; 
riis  favorite  pastime  was  to  slay  the  deer 
In  Summer  on  some  Adirondac  hill. 

From  the  Academy,  whose  belfry  crowned 
The  hill  of  Science  with  its  vane  of  brass. 
Came  the  Preceptor,  gazing  idly  round, 
Now  at  the  clouds,  and  now  at  the  green  grass. 

And  next  the  Deacon  .issued  from  his  door. 
In  his  voluminous  neck-cloth,  white  as  snow; 
A  suit  of  sable  bombazine  he  wore; 
His  form  was  ponderous,  and  his  step  was  slow. 

These  came  together  in  the  new  town-hall. 

With  sundry  farmers  from  the  region  round. 

The  Squire  presided,  dignified  and  tall, 

His  air  impressive  and  his  reasoning  sound; 

111  fared  it  with  the  birds,  both  great  and  small; 

Hardly  a  friend  in  all  that  crowd  they  found, 

But  enemies  enough,  who  every  one 

Charged  them  with  all  the  crimes  beneath  the  sun. 

When  they  had  ended,  from  his  place  apart. 
Rose  the  Preceptor,  to  redress  the  wrong 
And,  trembling  like  a  steed  before  the  start, 
Looked  round  bewildered  on  the  expectant  throng. 

"Plato,  anticipating  the  Reviewers, 
From  his  Republic  banished  without  pity 
The  Poets;  in  this  little  town  of  yours. 
You  put  to  death,  by  means  of  a  Committee. 
The  ballad-singers  and  the  Troubadours, 
The  street-musicians  of  the  heavenly  city 
The  birds,  who  make  sweet  music  for  us  all 
In  our  dark  hours,  as  David  did  for  Saul. 

"You  slay  them  all!  and  wherefore?  for  the  gain 
Of  a  scant  handful  more  or  less  of  wheat. 
Or  rye,  or  barley,  or  some  other  grain. 
Scratched  up  at  random  by  industrious  feet. 


Third  Year]  Tcilcs  of  a  Wayside  Inn  57 

"Think,  every  morning  when  the  sun  peeps  through 
The  dim,  leaf-latticed  windows  of  the  grove, 
How  jubilant  the  happy  birds  renew 
Their  old,  melodious  madrigals  of  love! 

"You  call  them  thieves  and  pillagers;  but  know 
They  arc  the  winged  wardens  of  your  farms, 
Who  from  the  cornfields  drive  the  insidious  foe 
And  from  your  harvests  keep  a  hundred  harms." 

With  this  he  closed:  and  through  the  audience  went 
A  murmur,  like  the  rustle  of  dead  leaves; 
The  farmers  laughed  and  nodded,  and  some  bent 
Their  yellow  heads  together  like  their  sheaves; 
The  birds  were  doomed;  and,  as  the  record  shows, 
A  bounty  offered  for  the  heads  of  crows. 

And  so  the  dreadful  massacre  began; 

O'er  fields  and  orchards,  and  o'er  woodland  crests, 

The  ceaseless  fusillade  of  terror  ran. 

Dead  fell  the  birds,  with  bloodstains  on  their  breasts. 

The  Summer  came,  and  all  the  birds  were  dead; 
Tlie  days  were  like  hot  coals;  the  very  ground 
Was  burned  to  ashes;  in  the  orchards  fed 
Myriads  of  caterpillars,  and  around 
The  cultivated  fields  and  garden  beds 
Hosts  of  devouring  insects  crawled,  and  found 
No  foe  to  check  their  march,  till  they  had  made 
The  land  a  desert  without  leaf  or  shade. 

That  year  in  Killingworth  the  Autumn  came 
Without  the  light  of  his  majestic  look; 
A  few  lost  leaves  blushed  crimson  with  their  shame 
And  drowned  themselves  despairing  in  the  brook, 
While  the  wild  wind  went  moaning  everywhere. 
Lamenting  the  dead  children  of  the  air!  • 

But  the  next  Spring  a  stranger  sight  was  seen, 
A  sight  that  never  yet  by  bard  was  sung, 
A  wagon,  overarched  with  evergreen, 
Upon  whose  boughs  were  wicker  cages  hung, 
All  full  of  singing  birds,  came  down  the  street, 
Filling  the  air  with  music  wild  and  sweet. 


58  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

From  all  the  country  round  these  hirds  were  brought, 
By  order  of  the  town,  with  anxious  (juest, 
And,  h)osened  from  their  wicker  i)risons  sought 
In  woods  and  fiehls  the  phic-es  they  h)ved  })est, 
Singing  loud  canticles,  which  many  thought 
Were  satires  to  the  authorities  addressed. 
While  others,  listening  in  green  lanes,  averred 
Such  lovely  music  never  had  l)een  heard! 

And  everywhere,  around,  above,  below. 

Their  songs  burst  forth  in  joyous  overflow. 

And  a  new  heaven  bent  over  a  new  earth 

Amid  the  sunny  farms  of  Killingworth. 

As  the  Poet  closes,   a  deep,   sotioroiis  sound  is  heard, 

coming  from  the  direction  of  the  Landlord' s  chair.     The 

Landlord's  eyes  have  been  closed  some  time.     He  suddenly 

sits  up  straight  and  then  rises. 
The  Landlord. 

I  've  been  attentive  to  each  word. 

And  thank  you  for  the  tales  we  've  heard. 

Though  still  reluctant  to  retire, 

So  pleasant  is  it  by  the  fire. 

The  village  clock  is  striking  one; 
'Tis  time  my  friends  to  seek  our  nest. 

Some  evening  when  your  work  is  done 

We'll  gather  here  and  tell  the  rest. 
All. 

Good  night.  Good  night.  Good  night. 

The  guests  shake  hands  n-ith  the  Landlord  and  depart, 
each  taking  a  candle. 

Curtain. 


Third  Year]  The  Piu'loiticd  Letter  59 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  dramatization  of  Tlic  Purloined  Letter  is  a  study  in  c-haraftcr 
inter[)retation.  There  is  practically  no  action  in  tlie  story,  and  the 
dialogue  is  worked  up  with  the  sole  purpose  of  showing  Dupin's  keenness 
of  wit  as  contrasted  with  the  rule-of-thumb  deductions  of  the  Prefect 
of  I'olice.  This  gives  an  excellent  chance  for  fine  interpretative  work. 
The  dramatic  adaptation  presents  the  story  in  two  scenes,  one  a  month 
later  than  the  other.  Few  changes  of  text  are  necessary.  The  dialogue 
remains  substantially  as  given  in  the  original;  the  long  speeches  are  cut: 
and  short  speeches  are  interpolated  to  help  along  the  conversation. 
Iiecaus6  of  the  probable  obscurity  of  the  allusion  in  the  letter  at  the  end 
of  the  story,  the  contents  of  the  letter  are  simplified  to  read  "Remember 
Vienna!" 

Scene  I 
The  Account  of  the  Robbery 

Characters  : 
M.  Auguste  Du/pin. 
His  Friend. 
The  Prefect  of  Police. 

The  time  is  about  the  year  IS-'iO.  The  place  is  Paris. 
The  scene  represents  the  small  library  of  M.  Dupin,  a  third 
story  back  room  in  a  Paris  lodging  house.  Bookcases  are 
placed  against  the  ivalls.  At  the  right  stafids  a  writing  desk. 
To  the  rear,  in  a  corner,  stands  a  hat  tree.  A  little  to  the 
left  of  the  center  of  the  stage  is  a  large  library  table  on  which 
is  a  lighted  lamp.  Books  and  papers  lie  scattered  about  on 
it.  Dupin  and  his  Friend  sit  by  the  table  comfortably  smok- 
ing. As  the  curtain  rises,  a  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Dupin  rises  and  goes  to  answer  the  knock. 


60  Dramatization  [Third  year 

DuiMN.  [Openhifj  the  door  and  admittim/  the  hurhj  Prefect 
of  Police]  Wliy,  my  friend!  A  liearty  welcome,  indeed! 
We  were  just  speaking  of  you.  Sit  down,  sit  down. 
[Taking  hi.s  hat  and  cane  and  placimj  them  on  the  hat  tree] 

The  Pkefect.  [Xodding  to  Dupiri's  Friend]  Let  me  get 
my  breath.  That's  a  cUmb,  7i'est  ce  pas?  Three  flights 
up!  [After  a  pause]  I  came  [frowning]  to  consult  you 
both  about  some  official  business. 

DupiN.  [As  he  turns  down  the  lamp]  If  it  is  any  point  requir- 
ing reflection,  we  shall  examine  it  to  better  purpose  in 
the  dark.      Have  a  smoke?*    [Offering  the  Prefect  a  pipe] 

The  Prefect.  Thank  you.  That  idea  about  the  light  is 
another  of  your  odd  notions. 

DuPiN.     Very  true.     [Puffing  away  at  his  pipe] 

The  Friend.  And  what  is  the  difficulty  now?  Nothing 
more  in  the  assassination  way,  I  hope? 

The  Prefect.  Oh,  no;  nothing  of  that  nature.  The  fact 
is,  the  business  is  very  simple  indeed,  and  I  make  no 
doubt  that  we  can  manage  it  sufficiently  well  ourselves; 
but  then  I  thought  Dupin  would  like  to  hear  the  details 
of  it  because  it  is  so  excessively  odd. 

Dupin.     [Dryly]     Simple  and  odd. 

The  Prefect.  Why,  yes;  and  not  exactly  that,  either. 
The  fact  is,  we  have  all  been  a  good  deal  puzzled  because 
the  affair  is  so  simple,  and  j^et  baffles  us  altogether. 

Dupin.  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  simplicity  of  the  thing  which 
puts  you  at  fault. 

The  Prefect.  [Laughing  heartily]  What  nonsense  you  do 
talk! 

Dupin.     Perhaps  the  mystery  is  a  little  too  plain. 

The  Prefect.  Oh,  good  heavens!  who  ever  heard  of 
such  an  idea? 

Dupin.  [Continuing  in  the  same  vein]  A  little  too  self- 
evident. 


Third  Year]  Tlw  Purloiued  Letter  61 

The  Prefect  [Profoundly  amused]  Ha!  ha!  ha! — ha! 
ha!  ha!  —  ho!  ho!  ho!  Oh,  Dupiu,  you  will  be  the  death 
of  me  yet!      [He  is  almost  convidsed  with  laughter] 

The  Friend.     And  what,  after  all,  is  the  matter  on  hand? 

The  Prefect.  AVhy,  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words.  But 
before  I  begin,  [looking  solemnly  first  at  one  and  then  at 
the  other]  let  me  caution  you  that  this  is  an  affair 
demanding  the  greatest  secrecy. 

The  Friend.  Proceed.  [Rising  and  going  over  to  the  desk 
to  refill  his  pipe  from  a  tobacco  jar,  then  resuming  his  seat] 

DuPiN.     [Indifferently]     Or  not. 

The  Prefect.  Well,  then;  I  have  received  personal  infor- 
mation from  a  very  high  quarter  that  a  certain  document 
of  the  last  importance  has  been  purloined  from  the  royal 
apartments.  '  The  individual  who  purloined  it  is  known; 
this  beyond  a  doubt;  he  was  seen  to  take  it.  It  is 
known,  also,  that  it  still  remains  in  his  possession. 

DuPiN.     How  is  this  known? 

The  Prefect.  It  is  clearly  inferred  from  the  nature  of 
the  document,  and  from  the  non-appearance  of  certain 
results  which  would  at  once  arise  from  its  passing  out 
of  the  ro})ber's  possession. 

The  Friend.     Be  a  little  more  explicit. 

The  Prefect.  [Mysteriously]  Well,  I  may  venture  so  far 
as  to  say  that  the  paper  gives  its  holder  a  certain  j)ower 
in  a  certain  quarter  where  such  power  is  immensely 
valuable. 

Dupin.     Still,  I  do  not  quite  understand. 

The  Prefect.  No?  Well,  the  disclosure  of  the  docu- 
ment to  a  third  person,  who  shall  be  nameless,  would 
bring  in  question  the  honor  of  a  j)ersonage  of  most 
exalted  station;  and  this  fact  gives  the  holder  of  the 
document  an  ascendency  over  the  illustrious  personage 
whose  honor  and  peace  are  so  jeopardized. 


62  Dramatization  [Third  year 

The  Fuiknd.  But  tliis  ascendency  would  depend  upon  the 
robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the  rob- 
ber.    Who  woukl  dure  — 

The  Puefect.  [Intcrniplinff]  The  thief  is  the  Minister 
D'Arcy,  who  dares  all  things.  The  document  in  ques- 
tion,—  a  letter,  to  be  frank,  —  had  been  received  by  the 
personage  robbed,  while  alone  in  the  royal  boudoir. 
During  iis  perusal  she  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  the  (jtlier  exalted  personage  from  whom 
especially  it  was  her  wish  to  conceal  it.  She  was  obliged 
to  leave  it,  open  as  it  was,  upon  a  table,  but  the  letter 
escaped  notice.  At  this  juncture  enters  the  Minister 
D'Arcy.  His  lynx  eye  immediately  perceives  the  paper, 
recognizes  the  handwriting,  observes  the  confusion  of  the 
personage  addressed,  and  fathoms  her  secret.  After 
some  conversation,  he  takes  from  his  pocket  a  letter 
somewhat  similar  to  the  one  in  question,  opens  it, 
pretends  to  read  it,  and  then  pUices  it  in  close  juxta- 
position to  the  other.  Again  he  converses.  At  length, 
•  in  taking  leave,  he  takes  also  from  the  table  the  letter 
to  which  he  had  no  claim.  Its  rightful  owner  saw,  but 
of  course  dared  not  call  attention  to  the  act,  in  the 
presence  of  the  third  personage,  who  stood  at  her  elbow. 
The  Minister  decamped,  leaving  his  own  letter  upon  the 
table. 

DuPiN.  [To  his  Friend]  Here,  then,  you  have  precisely 
what  you  demand  to  make  the  ascendency  complete, — 
the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the 
robber. 

The  Prefect.  Yes,  and  the  power  thus  attained  has  been 
wielded  to  a  very  dangerous  extent.  The  personage 
robbed  is  more  thoroughly  convinced,  every  day,  of  the 
necessity  of  reclaiming  her  letter.  Driven  to  despair, 
she  has  committed  the  matter  to  me. 


TnirdYear]  Tlw  Purloiiied  Letter  63 

DupiN.  Than  whom  no  more  sagacious  agent  could  be 
desired,  or  even  imagined.  [lie  settles  hack  in  his  chair 
and  smokes  quietly  while  listening  to  his  Friend  and  the 
Prefect  for  afeiv  minutes] 

The  Prefect.     You  flatter  me. 

The  Friend.  It  is  clear  that  the  letter  is  still  in  possession 
of  the  Minister. 

The  Prefect.  True.  And  upon  this  conviction  I  jjro- 
ceeded.  My  first  care  was  to  make  thorough  search 
of  the  Minister's  Hotel;  and  here  my  chief  embarrass- 
ment lay  in  the  necessity  of  searching  without  his 
knowledge. 

The  Friend.  But  j^ou  are  quite  an  fait  in  these  investiga- 
tions. The  Parisian  police  have  done  this  thing  often 
before. 

The  Prefect.  Oh,  yes;  and  for  this  reason  I  did  not 
despair.  The  habits  of  the  Minister  gave  me,  too,  a 
great  advantage.  He  is  frequently  absent  from  home 
all  night.  His  servants  are  by  no  means  numerous. 
They  sleep  at  a  distance  from  their  master's  ajjart- 
ments.  I  have  keys,  as  you  know,  with  which  I  can 
open  any  chamber  in  Paris.  For  three  months  a  night 
has  not  passed,  during  the  greater  part  of  whicli  I  have 
not  been  engaged,  personally,  in  ransacking  the  Minis- 
ter's apartments.  But  I  have  become  convinced  that 
the  thief  is  a  more  astute  man  than  myself. 

The  Friend.  But  is  it  not  possible  that  llie  letter  may  be 
elsewhere? 

The  Prefect.  This  is  barely  possible.  For  the  instant 
availability  of  the  document  —  its  susceptibility  of  being 
produced  at  a  moment's  notice  —  is  a  point  of  nearly 
ecpial  importance  with  its  possession. 

The  Friend.     Its  susceptibility  of  being  produced.^ 

DupiN.     That  is  to  say,  of  being  destroyed. 


64  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

The  Friend.  True.  The  paper  is  clearly  then  upon  tlie 
premises.  As  for  its  beinj^  upon  the  person  of  the  Min- 
ister, we  may  consider  that  as  out  of  the  (juestion. 

The  Prefect.  Entirely.  He  has  been  twice  waylaid,  as 
if  by  footpads,  and  his  person  rigorously  searched  under 
my  own  insj)ection. 

DuPiN.  [Leaning  foncard  and  smiling]  You  might  have 
spared  yourself  this  trouble.  The  Minister  is  not  al- 
together a  fool,  and,  if  not,  must  have  anticipated  these 
waylayings  as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  Prefect.  Not  altogether  a  fool,  but  then,  he's 
a  poet,  which  I  take  to  be  only  one  remove  from 
a  fool. 

DuPiN.  [Laconically]  True,  although  I  have  been  guilty 
of  certain  doggerel  myself.  [He  again  settles  back  and 
listens  to  the  Prefecfs  sforij] 

The  Friend.  [To  the  Prefect]  Suppose  you  detail  the  par- 
ticulars of  your  search. 

The  Prefect.  Why,  the  fact  is,  we  took  our  time,  and  we 
searched  everyiohere.  I  took  the  entire  building,  room  by 
room,  devoting  the  nights  of  a  whole  week  to  each.  We 
examined  first  the  furniture.  We  opened  every  possible 
drawer;  and  you  know  that  to  me  such  a  thing  as  a  secret 
drawer  is  impossible.  After  the  cabinets  we  took  the 
chairs.  The  cushions  we  probed  with  fine  long  needles. 
From  the  tables  we  removed  the  tops. 

The  Friend.     Why  so? 

The  Prefect.  Sometimes  the  top  of  a  table  is  removed 
by  the  person  wishing  to  conceal  an  article;  then  the  leg 
is  excavated,  the  article  deposited  within  the  cavity,  and 
the  top  replaced.  The  bottoms  and  tops  of  bed-posts 
are  employed  in  the  same  way. 

The  Friend.  But  could  not  the  cavity  be  detected  by 
sounding? 


Third  Year]  Tlw  PurloiTied  Letter  65 

The  Prefect.  By  no  means,  if,  when  the  article  is  depos- 
ited, a  sufficient  wadding  of  cotton  be  jjlaccd  around  it. 

The  Friend.     But  you  could  not  have  taken  to  pieces  all 
articles  of  furniture  in  which  it  would  have  been  pos- 
sible to  make  a  deposit  in  the  manner  you  mention. 
You  did  not  take  apart  all  the  chairs? 

The  Prefect.     Certainly    not;    but    we    did    better — we 
examined  the  rungs  of  every  chair  by  the  aid  of  a  power- 
ful  microscope.     A   single   grain   of   gimlet-dust   would 
.  thus  have  been  obvious.     Any  disorder  in  the  gluing 
would  have  sufficed  to  insure  detection. 

The  Friend,  I  presume  you  looked  to  the  mirrors,  between 
the  boards  and  the  plates,  and  you  probed  the  ])eds  and 
the  bedclothes,  as  well  as  the  curtains  and  carpets? 

The  Prefect.  Of  course;  and  when  we  had  absolutely 
completed  every  particle  of  the  furniture  in  this  way,  then 
we  examined  the  house  itself.  We  divided  its  entire 
surface  into  compartments,  which  we  numbered,  so  that 
none  might  be  missed;  then  we  scrutinized  each  indi- 
vidual square  inch  with  the  microscope. 

The  Friend.     You  must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

The  Prefect.   We  had ;  but  the  reward  offered  is  prodigious. 

The  Friend.     You  included  the  groimds  about  the  house? 

The  Prefect.  All  the  grounds  are  paved  with  brick. 
They  gave  us  comparatively  little  trouble.  We  exam- 
ined the  moss  between  the  bricks  and  found  it  undis- 
turbed. 

The  Friend.  You  looked  among  the  Minister's  papers, 
of  course,  and  into  the  books  of  the  library? 

The  Prefect.  Certainly;  we  opened  every  package  and 
parcel;  we  not  only  opened  every  book,  but  we  turned 
over  every  leaf  in  each  volume.  We  also  measured  the 
thickness  of  every  hook-cover  and  applied  the  microscope. 

The  Friend.     You  explored  the  floors  beneath  the  carpets? 


66  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

The  Prefect.  Beyond  doubt.  We  removed  every  carpet 
and  examined  the  hoards  with  tlie  mieroscojic. 

The  Friend.     And  the  paper  on  the  walls? 

The  Prefect.     Yes. 

The  Friend.     You  looked  into  the  cellars? 

The  Prefect,     We  did. 

The  Friend.  [With  decision]  Then  you  have  been  mak- 
ing a  miscalculation,  and  the  letter  is  not  upon  the 
premises,  as  you  suppose. 

The  Prefect.  I  fear  you  are  right  there.  [Turning  to 
Dupin]  And  now,  Dupin,  what  would  you  advise  me 
to  do? 

Dupin.  [Laconically]  To  make  a  thorough  re-search  of 
the  premises. 

The  Prefect.  [Half -rising,  and  bringing  his  fist  down  on 
the  table]  That  is  absolutely  needless.  I  am  not  more 
sure  that  I  breathe  than  I  am  that  the  letter  is  not  at 
the  Hotel. 

Dupin.  [Rising,  and  walking  up  and  down,  as  he  smokes] 
I  have  no  better  advice  to  give  you.  You  have,  of  course, 
an  accurate  description  of  the  letter?  [Pausing  near 
the  Prefect] 

The  Prefect.  Oh,  yes.  [Taking  out  his  note-book,  he 
reads]  "Seal,  small  and  red,  with  the  ducal  arms  of  the 
Serres  family ;  superscription  markedly  bold  and  decided." 
I'm  sure  I  am  at  my  wits'  ends.  [Replacing  his  note-book 
and  rising]  Well,  thank  you  for  listening  and  for  your 
advice.     I  must  go  now.     Good-night,  gentlemen. 

Dupin  and  his  Friend  both  rise  and  accompany  the 
Prefect  to  the  door. 

The  Friend.  [Shaking  hands  with  the  Prefect]  Good-night, 
my  friend,  don't  be  discouraged.     Better  luck  to  you! 

Dupin.    Good-night.   Let  us  know  when  you  find  the  letter. 

Curtain 


Third  Year]  The  PuHoined  Letter  67 

Scene  II 

The  Account  of  the  Discovery 

The  scene  is  the  same,  a  month  later.      The  curtain  rises, 
disclosing  the  three  men  sitting  at  the  table,  smoking. 

The  Fuiend.  Well,  now,  what  of  the  purloined  letter?  I 
presume  you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  overreaching  the  Minister? 

The  Prefect.  Confound  him,  say  I — yes;  I  made  the 
reexamination  as  you  suggested,  Dupin,  [turning  to 
him]  but  it  was  all  labor  lost,  as  I  knew  it  would  be. 

Dupin.  [Quietly]  How  much  was  the  reward  offered,  did 
you  say? 

The  Prefect.  Why,  a  very  great  deal  —  a  very  liberal 
reward — I  don't  like  to  say  how  much  precisely;  but 
one  thing  I  will  say,  that  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  my 
individual  check  for  fifty  thousand  francs  to  any  one 
who  could  obtain  me  that  letter.  The  fact  is,  it  is 
becoming  of  more  and  more  importance  every  day;  and 
the  reward  has  been  lately  doubled.  If  it  were  trebled, 
however,  I  could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done. 

Dupin.  [Drawling,  between  whiffs  of  his  pipe]  Why,  yes,  I 
really  — think,  you  have  not  exerted  yourself — to  the 
utmost  in  this  matter.  You  might  —  do  a  little  more,  I 
think,  eh? 

The  Prefect.  [Rising  impatiently]  How? — in  what  way? 
He  walks  up  and  down  nervously. 

Dupin.  [Very  deliberately]  Why  [puff,  pnff]  you  might  [puff, 
puff]  employ  counsel  in  the  matter,  eh?  [Puff,  J^tiff,  V'ff\ 
Do  you  remember  the    story  they  tell  of  Abernethy? 

The  Prefect.     [Impatiently]     No.     Hang  Abernethy! 

Dupin.  To  be  sure!  hang  him  and  welcome.  But,  once 
upon  a  time,  a  certain  rich  miser  conceived  the  design  of 


68  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

sponging  upon  this  Abernethy  for  a  medical  opinion. 
Getting  up,  for  this  purpose,  an  ordinary  conversation 
in  a  private  company,  he  insinuated  liis  case  to  the 
physician  as  that  of    an  imaginary  individual. 

"We  will  suppose,"  said  the  miser,  "that  his  symp- 
toms are  such  and  such;  now,  doctor,  what  would  you 
have  directed  him  to  take?" 

"  'Take!'  "  said  Abernethy,  "why,  take  advice,  to  be 
sure." 

The  Prefect.  [Sitting  down]  But,  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
take  advice,  and  to  pay  for  it.  I  would  really  give  fifty 
thousand  francs  to  any  one  who  would  aid  me  in  the 
matter. 

DuPiN.  [Opening  a  draioer  of  the  table  and  producing  a 
check-book]  In  that  case,  you  may  as  well  fill  me  up 
a  check  for  the  amount  mentioned.  When  you  have 
signed  it,  I  will  hand  you  the  letter. 

The  Friend.     [Astoujided]     What! 

The  Prefect  jumps  out  of  his  seat  and  stands  for  a 
moment  or  two  speechless  and  motionless,  looking  at  Diipin 
incredulously .  Then,  recovering  himself  somewhat,  he 
steps  to  the  table,  seizes  a  pen,  fills  up  the  check  and  hands 
it  to  Dupin,  who  sits  unmoved. 

The  Prefect.     There! 

Dupin  takes  the  check,  examines  it  critically,  then  goes 
leisurely  to  the  desk  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  opens  it, 
takes  out  a  letter,  and  gives  it  to  the  Prefect. 

Dupin.     [Quietly]     Here  is  j-^our  letter. 

The  Prefect.  [Joyfully  grasping  the  letter,  opening  it 
tvith  trembling  hands,  and  casting  his  eye  over  the  con- 
tents]    Oh,  Oh,  Oh!     My  fortune  is  made! 

He  dashes  for  the  door,  and  bursts  out,  hatless,  without 
saying  a  loord  to  either  Dupin  or  his  Friend. 

The  Friend.     [Rising,   going  over  to  Dupin,   and  placing 


TMrdTear]  Tlw  Purloincd  Letter  69 

his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder]  Well,  how  in  the  name 
of  all  that  is  mysterious,  did  you  get  tliat  letter? 

DuPiN.  [Smiling]  Sit  down  and  I'll  tell  you.  The  solu- 
tion of  this  mystery  was  very  simple,  I  assure  you.  First, 
I'll  tell  you  why  the  Prefect  failed.  The  Parisian  police 
are  persevering,  ingenious,  cunning,  and  thoroughly 
versed  in  the  knowledge  which  their  duties  seem  chiefly  to 
demand.  Thus,  when  the  Prefect  detailed  to  us  his  mode 
of  searching,  I  felt  entire  confidence  in  his  having  made  a 
satisfactory  investigation — so  far  as  his  labors  extended. 

The  Friend.     [Surprised]     So  far  as  his  labors  extended? 

DupiN.  Yes.  The  measures  adopted  were  not  only  the  best 
of  their  kind,  but  carried  out  to  absolute  perfection.  Had 
the  letter  been  deposited  within  the  range  of  their  search, 
these  fellows  would,  beyond  a  question,  have  found  it. 

The  Friend.  [Laughijig]  Well,  that  sounds  odd  indeed, 
as  our  friend,  the  Prefect  would  say. 

DuPiN.  [Continuing  icholhj  unruffled]  The  measures,  then, 
were  good  in  their  kind,  and  well  executed ;  their  defect  lay 
in  their  being  inapplicable  to  the  case,  and  to  the  man. 
He  pauses  and  fakes  two  or  three  ivhiffs  of  his  pipe. 

The  Friend.    [Eagerhj]    Go  on,  please.    This  is  interesting. 

DuPiN.  The  Prefect  and  his  cohort  fail  so  frequently 
because  they  consider  only  their  own  ideas  of  ingenuity. 
They  are  right  in  this  much— that  their  own  ingenuity  is 
a  faithful  representative  of  that  of  the  mass:  but  when 
the  cunning  of  the  individual  felon  is  diverse  in  character 
from  their  own,  the  felon  foils  them,  of  course.  They 
have  no  variation  of  principle  in  their  investigations;  they 
extend  or  exaggerate  their  old  modes  of  practice  when 
the  case  demands  it,  as  in  the  present  instance,  without 
touching  their  principles. 

The  Frip:nd.  Oh,  I  see.  Then  all  the  boring  and  probing 
and  scrutinizing  with  the  microscope,  in  this  case  were  but 


70  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

an  exaggeration  of  the  application  of  their  usual  prin- 
ciples of  search? 

DuPiN.  Just  so.  Do  you  not  see  the  Prefect  has  taken  it  for 
granted  that  all  men  proceed  to  conceal  a  letter  in  some 
out-of-the-way  hole  or  corner?  And  do  you  not  see,  also, 
that  such  nooks  for  concealment  are  adapted  only  for 
ordinary  occasions  and  would  be  adopted  only  by 
ordinary  intellects?  And  the  remote  source  of  his 
defeat  lies  in  the  supposition  that  the  Minister  is  a  fool 
because  he  has  acquired  renown  as  a  poet.  All  fools  are 
poets;  this  the  Prefect  feels.  But  he  is  at  fault  in 
supposing  that  all  poets  are  fools. 

The  Friend.  But  is  this  really  the  poet?  There  are  two 
brothers,!  know, and  both  have  attained  reputation  in  let- 
ters. The  Minister,  I  believe,  has  written  learnedly  on  the 
Differential  Calculus.   He  is  a  mathematician  and  no  poet. 

DuPiN.  You  are  mistaken;  I  know  him  well;  he  is  both. 
As  poet  and  mathematician,  he  would  reason  well;  as 
mere  mathematician  he  could  not  have  reasoned  at  all, 
and  thus  would  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  the  Prefect. 

The  Frienb.  You  surprise  me  bj'  these  opinions,  which 
have  been  contradicted  by  the  voice  of  the  world.  The 
mathematical  reason  has  long  been  regarded  as  the 
reason  par  excellence. 

DuPiN.  The  mathematicians,  I  grant  you,  have  done 
their  best  to  promulgate  the  popular  error  to  which  you 
allude,  and  which  is  none  the  less  an  error  for  its  pro- 
mulgation as  truth.     That,  however,  is  another  story. 

The  Friend.  You  have  a  quarrel  on  hand  with  some  of 
the  mathematicians  of  Paris,  I  see.     But  proceed. 

DuPiN.  I  mean  to  say,  that  if  the  Minister  had  been  no 
more  than  a  mathematician,  the  Prefect  would  have 
been  under  no  necessity  of  giving  me  this  check.  And 
now  I  will  tell  vou  how  I  found  the  letter. 


Third  Year]  TJic  Purloincd  Letter  71 

The  Friend.     Yes,  do.     I  am  all  eagerness  to  learn. 

lie  rises,  'pacing  sloicly  hack  and  forth  as  he  listens  to  Dupin. 

DuPiN.  Well,  I  knew  the  Minister  as  both  mathematician 
and  poet.  And  I  knew  him  as  courtier,  too.  Such  a 
man,  I  considered,  could  not  fail  to  be  aware  of  the 
ordinary  policial  modes  of  action.  He  could  not  have 
failed  to  anticipate  the  waylayings  to  which  he  w'as 
subjected.  He  must  have  foreseen  the  secret  investi- 
gations of  his  premises.  His  frequent  absences  from 
'  home  at  night  I  regarded  only  as  ruses  to  afford  oppor- 
tunity for  thorough  search  to  the  police,  and  thus 
impress  them  with  the  conviction  that  the  letter  was 
not  upon  the  premises.  I  felt,  also,  that  the  Minister 
would  despise  all  the  ordinary  nooks  of  concealment. 
I  saw,  in  fine,  that  he  would  be  driven,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  to  simplicity.  You  will  remember,  perhaps,  how 
desperately  the  Prefect  laughed  when  I  suggested, 
upon  our  first  interview,  that  it  was  just  possible 
this  mystery  troubled  him  so  much  on  account  of  its 
being  so  very  self-evident. 

The  Friend.  Yes,  I  remember  his  merriment  well.  I 
really  thought  he  would  have  fallen  into  convulsions. 
But  go  on  with  your  story. 

Dupin.  Well,  the  more  I  reflected,  the  more  satisfied  I 
became,  that,  to  conceal  this  letter,  the  Minister  had 
resorted  to  the  comprehensive  and  sagacious  expedient 
of  not  concealing  it  at  all. 

The  Friend.  [Stopping  a  moment  and  then  sitting  down 
agai?i]     What!     Why,  what  do  you  mean? 

Dupin.  I  mean  just  that.  And  now  to  my  story. — I  pre- 
pared myself  with  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  and  called 
one  fine  morning,  quite  by  accident,  at  the  Ministerial 
Hotel.  I  found  him  at  home,  yawning,,  lounging,  and 
dawdling,   as  usual,   and  pretending  to   be  in   the  last 


72  Dramatization 


[Third  Year 


extremity  of  ennui.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  really 
energetic  human  being  now  alive — but  that  is  only 
when  nobody  sees  him. 

The  Friend.     Indeed!     IIow  strange! 

DupiN.  Only  a  part  of  the  game,  my  friend. — I  com- 
plained to  him  of  my  weak  eyes,  and  lamented  the 
necessity  of  the  spectacles,  under  cover  of  which  I  sur- 
veyed the  apartment,  while  seemingly  intent  only  on  the 
conversation  of  my  host.  At  length  my  eyes  fell  upon  a 
trumpery  filigree  card-rack  of  pasteboard,  that  hung, 
dangling,  by  a  dirty  blue  ribbon,  from  a  little  brass  knob 
just  beneath  the  middle  of  the  mantelpiece.  In  this 
rack  were  five  or  six  visiting  cards  and  a  solitary  letter. 
This  last  was  much  soiled  and  crumpled.  It  was  torn 
nearly  in  two,  across  the  middle — as  if  a  design  to  tear  it 
up  entirely  as  worthless  had  been  altered.  It  had  a 
large  black  seal,  bearing  the  D'Arcy  cipher  very  con- 
spicuously and  was  addressed  in  a  diminutive  female 
hand  to  the  Minister,  himself. 
He  'pauses  again. 

The  Friend.  [Rather  impatiently]  Well,  well,  what  had  that 
to  do  with  the  case?  The  letter  the  Prefect  described  was 
radically  different.  That  had  a  small  red  seal  with  the 
ducal  arms  of  the  Serres  family ;  this  one  you  are  describ- 
ing had  a  large  black  seal.  The  superscription  on  the 
purloined  letter  was  bold  and  decided;  on  this  one  it  was 
diminutive  and  in  a  woman's  hand.  The  one  you  saw 
was  addressed  to  the  Minister;  the  other  one  to  a  certain 
royal  personage. 

DuPiN.  [Smiling  condescendingly]  That's  the  very  point, 
the  radicalness  of  the  differences,  which  was  excessive; 
the  dirt;  the  soiled  and  torn  condition  of  the  paper  so 
inconsistent  with  the  true  methodical  habits  of  the 
Minister;  these  things,  together  with  the  hj^per-obtrusive 


Third  Year]  Thc  Purloiiicd  Letter  73 

situation  of  this  document,  full  in  the  view  of  every 
visitor, — -these  things  were  strongly  corroborative  of 
suspicion,  in  one  who  came  with  the  intention  to  suspect. 
I  protracted  my  visit  as  long  as  possible,  and  while  I 
talked  with  the  minister  on  a  topic  in  which  he  had  a  lively 
interest,  I  committed  to  memory  the  external  appear- 
ance of  the  letter  and  its  position  in  the  rack.  And  as  I 
looked,  I  observed  that  the  edges  of  the  paper  presented  a 
broken  appearance.  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  letter  had 
been  turned  as  a  glove,  inside  out,  re-directed,  and  re- 
sealed.  I  bade  the  Minister  good-morning  and  took  my 
departure,  leaving  a  gold  snuff-box  upon  the  table. 

The  Friend.  [Astonished]  Why  did  you  not  seize  the 
letter  then  and  there? 

DupiN.  For  the  simple  reason  that  I  would  so  have  risked  my 
life.  The  Minister  is  a  desperate  man,  and  a  man  of  nerve. 
Moreover  his  Hotel  is  not  without  attendants  devoted  to 
his  interests.  Had  I  made  the  wild  attempt  you  suggest 
the  good  people  of  Paris  might  have  heard  of  me  no  more. 

The  Friend.     Well  what  did  you  do? 

DupiN.  The  next  morning  I  called  for  the  snuff-box,  when 
we  resumed,  quite  eagerly,  the  conversation  of  the 
preceding  day.  While  thus  engaged,  a  loud  report,  as  if 
of  a  pistol,  was  heard  beneath  the  windows  of  the  Hotel, 
and  was  succeeded  by  a  series  of  fearful  screams,  and  the 
shoutings  of  a  mob.  [Suddenly  losing  his  customary  calm, 
he  rises  and  gesticulates]  The  Minister  rushed  to  a  case- 
ment, threw  it  open,  and  looked  out.  In  the  meantime  I 
stepped  to  the  card-rack,  took  the  letter,  put  it  in  my 
pocket,  and  replaced  it  by  a  facsimile  (so  far  as  regards 
externals)  which  I  had  carefully  prepared  at  my  lodgings. 

The  Friend.  Your  ingenuity  staggers  me.  But  what  was 
the  noise  on  the  street?     I  suspect  yoii  there. 

Dupin.     Good!     [Patting  his  Friend  condescendingly  on  the 


74  Dramatization 


[Third  Year 


shoulder]  I  commend  you  for  your  improvement  in  the 
power  of  inference.  The  disturbance  in  the  street  had 
been  occasioned  by  the  frantic  behavior  of  a  man  with 
a  musket.  He  had  fired  it  among  a  crowd  of  women  and 
children.  It  proved  to  have  been  without  ball,  and  the 
fellow  was  suffered  to  go  his  own  way  as  a  lunatic  or 
drunkard.  When  he  had  gone,  the  Minister  came  from  the 
window,  whither  I  had  followed  him  immediately  upon 
securing  the  object  in  view.  Soon  afterwards  I  bade  him 
farewell.  The  pretended  lunatic  was  a  man  in  my  own  pay. 

The  Friend.  How  cleverly  you  have  outwitted  the 
Minister!  His  political  downfall  is  sure  now,  since, 
being  unaware  that  the  letter  is  not  in  his  possession,  he 
will  proceed  with  his  exactions  as  if  it  was,  and  will 
inevitably  commit  himself  to  his  political  destruction. 

DuPiN.  I  confess  I  have  no  sympathy  for  him.  I  will  tell 
you  now,  that  I  had  another  motive  in  probing  this 
mystery  than  that  of  helping  the  Prefect.  The 
Minister  once,  in  Vienna,  did  me  an  evil  turn,  which  I 
.  told  him  quite  good-humoredly,  that  I  should  remember. 
[Smiling]  I  really  should  like  very  well  to  know  the  precise 
character  of  his  thoughts,  when, being  defied  by  her  whom 
the  Prefect  terms  "a  certain  personage,"  he  is  reduced  to 
opening  the  letter  which  I  left  for  him  in  the  card-rack. 

The  Friend.   How?    Did  you  put  anything  particular  in  it? 

DuPiN.  [Drawling]  Why: — it  did  not  seem  altogether 
right  to  leave  the  interior  blank — that  would  have  been 
insulting.  And  as  I  knew  he  would  feel  some  curiosity 
in  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  person  who  had  out- 
witted him,  I  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  give  him  a  clew. 
He  knows  my  handwriting.  [With  a  chuckle]  Sol  just 
wrote  in  the  middle  of  the  blank  page  the  words  "Re- 
member Vienna!" 

Curtain 


TtirdYear]  A  Spring  Faiitasy  15 


A   SPRIXG  FANTASY 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

The  idea  of  Spring  is  here  visualized  by  a  series  of  tableaux  aocom- 
panied  by  descriptive  readings,  song,  and  dance,  the  whole  being  woven 
into  a  fantasy.  The  following  poems  are  read  wholly  or  in  part: 
Herrick's  To  Daffodils  and  Corinnas  Maying;  Tennyson's  The  Brook 
and  The  May  Queen;  Longfellow's  Spring,  The  Return  of  Spring,  and 
The  Brook;  Wordsworth's  The  Daffodils;  Emerson's  May-Day;  and 
Browning's  Song  from  Pippa  Passes. 


Overture — Mendelssohn's  Spring  Song 

Prologue 

The  Reader,  dressed  to  suggest  Spring,  in  light,  graceful 
robes,  a  ivreath  of  green  upon  her  head,  steps  before  the  cur- 
tain and  reads. 

Where  shall  we  keep  the  holiday, 
And  duly  greet  the  entering  May? 
Too  strait  and  lov/  our  cottage  doors, 
And  all  unmeet  our  carpet  floors; 
Nor  spacious  court,  nor  monarch's  hall. 
Suffice  to  hold  the  festival. 
Up  and  away!  where  haughty  woods 
Front  the  liberated  floods: 
We  will  climb  the  l)r()ad-backcd  hills, 
Hear  the  uproar  of  their  joy; 
We  will  mark  the  leaps  and  gleams 
Of  the  new-delivered  streams. 
And  the  murmuring  rivers  of  sap 
Mount  in  the  pipes  of  the  trees, 
Giddy  with  day,  to  the  topmost  spire. 


76  Dramatization  rxhird  Tev 

Which  for  a  spike  of  tender  green 
Bartered  its  powdery  cap; 
And  the  colors  of  joy  in  the  bird, 
And  the  love  in  its  carol  heard, 
Frog  and  lizard  in  holiday  coats, 
And  turtle  hrave  in  his  golden  spots; 
While  cheerful  cries  of  crag  and  plain 
Reply  to  the  thunder  of  river  and  main. 


The  million-handed  sculptor  moulds 
Quaintest  bud  and  blossom  folds. 
The  million-handed  i)ainter  pours 
Opal  hues  and  purple  dye; 
Azaleas  flush  the  island  floors, 
And  the  tints  of  heaven  reply. 

Wreaths  for  the  May!  for  happy  Spring 
Today  shall  all  her  dowry  bring. 
The  love  of  kind,  the  joy,  the  grace. 
Hymen  of  element  and  race, 
Knowing  well  to  celebrate 
With  song  and  hue  and  star  and  state. 
With  tender  light  and  youthful  cheer, 
The  spousals  of  the  new-born  year. 

(Emerson's  May-Day) 

Tableau  I 

The  Banishment  of  Winter  Days 

The  curtain  rises,  displaying  a  white  drop  curtain,  sug- 
gesting the  snoivs  of  winter.  It  has  an  opening  in  the  center 
so  that  it  may  be  drawn  aside  by  the  pages  of  Spring  at  the 
given  cue,  revealing  the  spring  landscape,  which  is  to  be  the 
general  setting  for  the  rest  of  the  pictures.     The  floor,  ivhich 


Third  Year]  A    SpHnQ    FttUtasy  11 

has  a  green  covering  tightly  stretched  to  admit  dancing,  should 
be  left  as  free  as  possible  for  the  larger  groups  and  the  dancers. 
Enter  from  the  right,  crossing  the  front  of  the  stage  and  going 
off  to  the  left.  Winter,  an  old,  bent  man,  dressed  in  white, 
with  white  beard,  sparkling  with  frost;  he  is  followed  by  the 
Winter  Days  (boys),  bent,  gnome-like  figures,  also  in  white, 
bearing  evergreen  branches.  Closely  following  them  is  Spring, 
a  youthful,  sprightly  figure,  dressed  in  green,  crowned  arid  gar- 
landed with  a  profusion  of  spring  flowers  of  every  kind. 
Spring,  bearing  a  basket  of  flowers  on  her  arm  beckons  to  her 
attendants,  each  dressed  to  represent  a  single  spring  flower  {the 
tulip,  the  violet,  the  primrose).  They  run  in,  throwing  flowers 
after  the  retreating  Winter  Days.  When  the  last  attendant  of 
Winter  has  disappeared,  at  a  signal  from  Spring,  two  pages 
{small  boys  dressed  in  green)  draiv  aside  the  drop  curtain, 
and  Spring  and  her  attendants  march  to  the  rear,  the  pages 
falling  in  with  the  procession  at  the  end.  Throughout  this 
moving  picture,  the  pianist  or  orchestra  continues  playing  the 
Spring  Song  very  softly  so  as  not  to  overpower  the  Reader's 
voice.  The  Reader  stands  far  to  one  side,  out  of  the  stage 
picture. 

Reading 

I  saw  the  bud-crowned  Spring  go  forth. 
Stepping  daily  onward  north. 
I  saw  the  Days  deformed  and  low, 
Short  and  bent  by  cold  and  snow; 
The  merry  Spring  threw  wreaths  on  them. 
Flower-wreaths  gay  with  bud  and  bell; 
Many  a  flower  and  many  a  gem. 
On  carpets  green,  Spring's  flowers  march 
Below  May's  well-appointed  arch, 

[Cue  for  pages  to  draw  curtain] 


78  Dramatization  [Third  year 

Each  star,  each  god,  each  grace  amain, 
Every  joy  and  virtue  speed, 
Marching  duly  in  her  train. 
And  fainting  Nature  at  her  need. 
Is  made  whole  again. 

(Emerson's  May-Day) 
The  curtain  falls  as  soon  as  the  pages  have  joined  the 
others. 

Tableau  II 

The  Banishment  of  Sleet,  Snow,  Wind,  and  Rain 

As  Longfellow's  "Spring"  is  read,  the  curtain  rises  on  the 
same  scene  without  the  drop  curtain.  Spring  and  her  com- 
panions are  seated  in  a  merry  circle  well  forward  to  the  right. 
Enter  Winter.  He  moves  to  the  center  of  the  stage  and,  as  he 
discovers  Spring,  turns  and  beckons.  Immediately  his  train. 
Sleet,  Snow,  Wind,  and  Rain  enter  and  surround  him,  as  if  for 
protection.  Then  Spring  arises  and  begins  a  dance  of  the 
flowers  tvith  her  attendants.  Winter  and  his  companions 
gradually  shrink  away,  and,  as  they  disappear.  Spring  and 
her  attendants  form  a  tableau  in  the  center  of  the  stage. 

Reading 

Gentle  Spring! — in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display! 
For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad. 

And  thou,— thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train. 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain. 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear. 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 
Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud; 


Third  Year]  A  Spring  Fatitasy  79 

But,  Hea-ven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly. 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  })oth  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Curtain        (Longfellow's  Spring) 

Tableau  III 

The  Enthronement  of  Spring 

The  curtain  rises,  presenting  the  foregoing  picture  of  Spring 
and  her  attendants  moving  about  in  a  dance  with  ''ermined 
Frost,  and  Wind,  and  Rain,"  during  the  evolutions  of  tchich 
these  companions  of  Winter  finally  disappear  from  the  stage 
as  the  reading  of  the  following  is  finished. 

Reading 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  eml^roidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  s'ky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings. 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry ; 

In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

(Longfellow's  The  Return  of  Spri7ig) 
Curtain 


80  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Tableau  IV 
The  Dance  of  the  Daffodils 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  cue,"'  For  oft,  when  on  my  couchllie." 
The  Poet  reclines  on  a  rustic  couch  in  the  rear-center;  on  either 
side,  hand  in  hand,  arranged  in  a  semi-circle  are  about  twenty 
girls,  (or  as  many  as  can  be  conveniently  used  in  the  dance), 
dressed  to  represent  daffodils:  green  skirts,  yellow  bodices  with 
flowing  sleeves,  and  yelloiv  caps  shaped  to  suggest  the  flower. 
On  the  cue,  "And  dances  with  the  daffodils,''  a  chord  is  struck 
by  the  pianist  or  orchestra,  and  the  Daffodils  take  the  first 
position  for  a  flower  dance  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  poem. 

Reading 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company! 

I  gazed — and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills. 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

(Wordsworth's  The  Daffodils) 
Curtain  after  dance. 


Third  Year]  A  Spring  Fantasy  81 

Tableau  V 
The  Flight  of  the  Daffodils 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  cue  "Stay,  stay,"  discovering 
Daffodils  in  a  picturesque  group,  poised,  as  if  for  flight. 
This  pose  may  be  one  figure  in  a  daffodil  dance.  The  pose 
is  assumed  several  times  during  the  evolutions  of  the  dance 
and  is  finally  followed  by  actual  flight  as  the  curtain  falls. 

Reading 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you. 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 
As  quick  a  gro'wth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  Summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

(Herrick's  To  Daffodils) 
Curtain 


82  Dramatization  [Third  Year 

Tableau  VI 

The  Spirit  of  the  Brook 

As  the  curtain  rises,  the  Spirit  of  the  Brook  is  discovered, 
reclining  on  a  hank,  dressed  in  a  shimmering  robe  suggestive 
of  the  sparkling  'brook.  The  song  may  be  sung  by  the  Spirit 
of  the  Brook,  or  by  a  voice  behind  the  scenes,  and  stanzas  other 
than  those  here  given  may  be  chosen  at  will. ' 

Song 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  mto  eddying  bays, 

I  babbie  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  ajid  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 


Third  Year]  A  Spring  Fantasy  83 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river. 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

(Tennyson's  The  Brook) 
Curtain 

Tableau  VII 
The  Spirit  of  the  Brook 

The  curtain  rises  'presenting  the  Spirit  of  the  Brook  in 
another  pose. 

Reading 

Laugh  of  the  mountain! — lyre  of  bird  and  tree! 
Pomp  of  the  meadow!     mirror  of  the  morn! 
The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee! 
Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays. 
The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands  that  charm  each  shepherd's  gaze. 
IIow  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current! 
O,  sweet  simplicity''  of  days  gone  by! 

Thou  shun'st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid  fount! 

(Longfellow's  The  Brook) 
Ci'rtain 


84  Dramatization  [Third  year 

Tableau  VIII 

The  May  Queen 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  tableau  representing  the  appeal 
of  the  daughter  to  her  mother.  The  mother  is  seated,  a  piece 
of  sewing  or  knitting  in  her  lap,  in  the  attitude  of  listening; 
the  girl  sits  at  her  mother's  feet  on  a  low  stool,  with  her  clasped 
hands  resting  on  her  mother's  knee.  This  may  be  recited  by 
the  girl  in  the  tableau  or  read  by  the  Reader. 

Reading 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear: 
To-morrow 'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 
Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake, 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break: 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands 

gay, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow- 
grass. 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they 
pass; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 


Third  Year]  A  Spring  Fcuitcisy  85 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  an«l 

play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May.     [Risi7}g] 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year: 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

(Tennyson's  The  May  Queen) 
Curtain 

Tableau  IX 

The  Summons  to  the  May  Day  Celebration 

Reading  before  the  curtain  rises 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame!     The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air: 
Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow  'd  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since;  yet  you  not  drest. 
Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns:  'tis  sin. 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch-in  May. 


86  Drcnnatization  [Third  Year 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad:  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May: 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying: 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy,  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youthj  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream. 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream. 

—  Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short;  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun:  — 

Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaj'ing. 
Come,  my  Corinna!  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

(Herrick's  Corinna 's  Maying) 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  May  Day  Celebration.  The 
Queen  of  the  May,  already  croicned,  is  seated  on  a  throne  in 
the  rear  of  the  stage  at  one  side,  overlooldng  the  May-pole, 
which  occupies  the  center  of  the  stage.  The  dancers,  dressed 
as  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  are  ranged  around  the  pole 
ready  for  the  dance.  At  a  given  signal  the  music  of  the 
dance  begins. 

Curtain  at  close  of  dance. 


Third  Year]  A  Spring  Faiitasy  87 

Tableau  X 

The  Triumph  of  Spring 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  iahleau  representing  Spring,  all 
of  the  characters  being  grouped  about  the  figure  of  Spring. 
During  this  tableau,  the  Spring  Song  is  played,  a  merry 
dance  of  the  flowers  takes  place,  and  at  a  given  signal,  a  tri- 
umphal vrocessio7i  is  formed,  headed  by  Spring,  and  the 
characters  march  off  the  stage.  This  dance  and  march 
may  be  made  elaborate  or  simple,  as  desired.  During  the 
march,  the  following  is  read  or  sung. 

Song 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world ! 

(Browning's  Song  from  Pippa  Passes) 


FOURTH  YEAR 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

In  order  to  introduce  practically  all  of  the  characters  in  the  story 
so  as  to  suggest  their  individual  peculiarities,  and  to  give  some  clue  to 
their  place  in  the  plot,  several  situations  from  chaps,  vii,  viii,  and  ix 
have  *been  combined  in  this  dramatization  from  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
and  the  time  has  been  condensed  into  a  single  evening  at  the  home  of  the 
hospitable  Vicar.  The  dialogue  is  essentially  identical  with  that  of 
the  text. 

A  Pleasant  Evening  With  The  Vicar 

Characters : 

Dr.  Primrose.  Olivia. 

Moses.  Sophia. 

Mr.  Thornliill.  Mrs.  Primrose. 

The  Chaplain.  The  Little  Maid  Servant. 

Mr.  Burchell.  Neighbors. 

The  Visitors  from  Town 
The  stage  represents  a  pleasant  English  garden,  with 
shrubbery  on  the  sides  and  in  the  rear.  An  opening  in  the 
shrubbery,  with  a  rustic  gate,  on  the  left,  suggests  the  path 
to  the  cottage,  which  is  just  out  of  sight.  A  green  floor-covering 
gives  the  appearance  of  a  lawn.  Seated  around  a  table 
toward  the  rear  of  the  stage,  the  Vicar  s  family  and  their  guests 
are  just  finishing  their  simple  evening  meal.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  the  laughing  faces  of  the  company  are  turned  toward 
Mr.  Thornhill  who  sits  at  the  Vicar's  right. 


8  Dramatization  [Fourth  Yeai 

Olivia.  [To  Sophia  in  an  undertone,  but  loud  enough  to  he 
heard  by  Mrs.  Primrose,  who  nods  approval,  and  by  Mr. 
Thornhill]  Squire  Thornhill  has  an  infinite  fund  of  humor. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [To  the  Chaplain,  with  a  significant 
look  toward  Sophia]  Come,  tell  us  honestly,  Frank, 
suppose  the  church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in 
lawn  sleeves,  on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no 
lawn  about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be  for? 

The   Chaplain.     For  both,  to  be  sure. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  Right,  Frank,  for  may  this  glass  suffo- 
cate me,  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth  all  the  priestcraft  in  the 
creation!  For  what  are  tithes  and  tricks  but  an  impo- 
sition, all  a  confounded  imposture? — and  I  can  prove  it. 

Moses.  I  wish  you  would,  and  I  think  that  I  should  be 
able  to  answer  you. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [Winking  at  the  rest  of  the  company] 
Very  well,  sir,  if  you  are  for  a  cool  argument  upon 
that  subject,  I  am  ready  to  accept  the  challenge.  And, 
first,  whether  are  you  for  managing  it  analogically  or 
dialogically  ? 

Moses.  [Enthusiastically]  I  am  for  managing  it  ration- 
ally. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  Good  again,  and,  firstly,  of  the  first. 
I  hope  5^ou'll  not  deny  that  whatever  is,  is.  If  you 
don't  grant  me  that,  I  can  go  no  further. 

Moses.  Why,  I  think  I  may  grant  that,  and  make  the 
best  of  it. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  I  hope,  too,  you'll  grant  that  a  part 
is  less  than  the  whole. 

Moses.     I  grant  that  too;  it  is  but  just  and  reasonable. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  I  hope  you'll  not  deny  that  the 
two  angles  of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones. 

Moses.  [Looking  around  with  an  air  of  great  importance] 
Nothing  can  be  plainer. 


rourtiiYear]  Tlw  Victtr  of  Wakefield  9 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [Speaking  very  rapidly]  Very  well,  the 
premises  being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to  observe  tiiat 
the  concatenation  of  self-existences,  proceeding  in  a  recip- 
rocal duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produces  a  problematical 
dialogism,  which  in  some  measure  proves  that  the  essence 
of  spirituality  may  be  referred  to  the  second  predicable. 

Moses.  Hold,  hold!  I  deny  that.  Do  you  think  that  I 
can  thus  tamely  submit  to  such  heterodox  doctrines? 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [Passionately]  What!  not  submit! 
Answer  me  one  plain  question:  Do  you  think  Aristotle 
right  when  he  says  that  relatives  are  related? 

Moses.     Undoubtedly. 

Mr.  Thorxiiill.  If  so,  then,  answer  me  directly  to 
what  I  jH'opose:  Whether  do  you  judge  the  analytical 
investigation  of  the. first  part  of  my  cnthymem  deficient 
secundum  quoad,  or  quoad  minus;  and  give  me  your 
reasons  —  give  me  your  reasons,  I  say,  directly. 

Moses.  I  protest,  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  the  force 
of  3^our  reasoning;  but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one  simple 
proposition,  I  fancy  it  maj'  then  have  an  answer. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  Oh,  sir,  I  am  your  most  humble 
servant;  I  find  you  want  me  to  furnish  you  with  argument 
and  intellects,  too.  No,  sir;  there  I  protest  you  are  too 
hard  for  me. 

All  laugh  merrily  at  Moses's  discomfiture.  Mr. 
Thornhill  glances  at  his  tvatch  and  rises.  This  is  the 
signal  for  the  whole  company  to  rise  from  the  table. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  But  it  is  almost  time  for  our  dance, 
and  1  must  go  to  fetch  the  musicians,  and  escort  hither 
the  two  young  ladies  from  town  who  will  have  the  honor 
to  be  your  guests  this  evening. 

Mr.  ThorjiJiill  bores,  the  ladies  curtsy.  When  he  has  gone, 
Mrs.  Primrose  goes  into  the^  house  for  a  moment;  the  Little 
Maid  Servant  enters  and  clears  the  table;  the  girls   scat 


10  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

ihemselves  on  the  grass;  Dr.  Primrose  brings  a  chair  from 
the  table  for  his  ivife;  and  Moses  sits  on  a  rustic  bench. 
Mrs.  Primrose  returns. 

Mrs.  Primrose.  [Sitting  down  by  Dr.  Primrose  and  turn- 
ing toicard  him]  And  now,  my  dear,  I'll  fairly  own,  that 
it  was  I  that  instructed  my  girls  to  encourage  our  land- 
lord's addresses.  I  had  always  some  ambition,  and  you 
now  see  that  I  was  right; for  who  knows  how  this  may  end.^ 

Dr.  Primrose.  [With  a  groan]  Ay,  who  knows  that, 
indeed?  For  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  it;  and  I  could 
have  been  better  i)leased  with  one  that  was  poor  and 
honest,  than  this  fine  gentleman  with  his  fortune  and 
infidelity;  for  depend  on't,  if  he  be  what  I  suspect  him, 
no  freethinker  shall  ever  have  a  child  of  mine. 

Moses.  [Who  has  redovered  his  good  nature]  Sure,  father, 
you  are  too  severe  in  this;  for  Heaven  will  never  arraign 
him  for  what  he  thinks,  but  for  what  he  does.  Every 
man  has  a  thousand  vicious  thoughts,  which  arise  with- 
out his  power  to  suppress.  Thinking  freely  of  religion, 
may  be  involuntary  with  this  gentleman;  so  that, 
allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet  as  he  is  purely 
passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be  blamed  for  his 
errors  than  the  governor  of  a  city  without  walls  for  the 
shelter  he  is  obliged  to  afford  an  invading  enemy. 

Dr.  Primrose.  True,  my  son,  but  if  the  governor  invites 
the  enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable.  And  such  is  always 
the  case  with  those  who  embrace  error.  The  vice  does 
not  lie  in  assenting  to  the  proofs  they  see,  but  in  being 
blind  to  many  of  the  proofs  that  offer;  so  that,  though 
our  erroneous  opinions  be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet, 
as  we  have  been  wilfully  corrupt  or  very  negligent  in 
forming  them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice  or 
contempt  for  our  folly. 

Mrs.  Primrose.     My  dear,  several  very  prudent  men  ol 


Fourth  Year]  The  Vicor  of  Wakefield  11 

our  acquaintance  are  freethinkers,  and  make  very  good 
husbands;  and  I  know  some  sensible  girls  that  have  had 
skill  enough  to  make  converts  of  their  spouses.  And 
who  knows,  my  dear,  what  Olivia  may  be  able  to  do? 
The  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  every  subject,  and 
to  my  knowledge  is  very  well  skilled  in  controversy. 

Dr.  Primrose.  [Glancing  from  mother  to  daughter]  Why, 
my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have  read?  It  does 
not  occur  to  me  that  I  ever  jmt  such  books  into  her  hands; 
you  certainly  overrate  her  merit. 

Olivia.  Indeed,  papa,  she  does  not;  I  have  read  a  great 
deal  of  controversy.  I  have  read  the  disputes  between 
Thwackum  and  Scjuare;  the  controversy  between 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage;  and  I  am  now 
employed  in  reading  the  controversy  in  "Religious 
Courtship." 

Dr.  Primrose.  [Sryiiling  indulgently]  Very  well,  that's 
a  good  girl;  I  find  you  are  i)erfectly  qualified  for  making 
converts.  But,  my  girl,  pray  be  content  for  a  while  to 
help  your  mother  make  gooseberry  pics! 

At  this  point  Mr.  Bnrchell  enters  from  the  right.     Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Primrose  rise  to  welcome  their  guest. 

Dr.  Primrose.  We  are  glad  to  welcome  you  at  this  peaceful 
evening  hour  of  rest  and  quiet  conversation.  Be  seated. 
[Pointing  to  the  rustic  bench  ivhere  Moses  is  sitting] 

Mr.  Burchell.  [Smiling  upon  Sophia,  and  seating  him- 
self on  the  grass  near  bi/]  My  thanks!  —  But  may  I 
choose  this  lowlier  seat? 

Sophia.  [With  a  sigh,  looking  off  into  the  di.stance]  I  never 
sit  thus,  but  I  think  of  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Gay.  An 
evening  like  this  is  so  full  of  romance.  [T aiming  to 
Mr.  Burchell  with  a  shy  glance]  Do  you  know  Ihc  story 
of  the  two  lovers,  so  sweetly  described  by  iSIr.  Gay,  who 
were  struck  dead  in  each  other's  arms?     There  is  some- 


12  Dramatization 


I  Fourth  Year 


thins  ^^  pathetic  in  the  description,  that  I  have  read  it  a 
hundred  times  with  new  raj)ture. 

Before  Air.  Burchell  has  an  opportunity  to  reply,  Moses 
breaks  in. 

Moses.  [With  a  learned  air]  In  my  opinion,  the  finest 
strokes  in  that  description  are  much  below  those  in  the 
"Acis  and  Gahitea"  of  Ovid.  The  Roman  poet  under- 
stands the  use  of  contrast  better;  and  ui)on  that  figure, 
artfully  managed,  all  strength  in  the  pathetic  depends. 

Mr.  Burchell.  It  is  remarkal)le,  that  both  the  poets  you 
mention  have  equally  contributed  to  introduce  a  false 
taste  into  their  respective  countries,  by  loading  all  their 
lines  with  epithet.  Men  of  little  genius  found  them 
most  easily  imitated  in  their  defects;  and  English  poetry, 
like  that  in  the  latter  empire  of  Rome,  is  nothing  at 
present  but  a  combination  of  luxuriant  images,  without 
plot  or  connection — a  string  of  epithets  that  improve  the 
sound  without  carrying  on  the  sense.  But  perhaps, 
madam,  while  I  thus  reprehend  others,  you'll  think  it 
just  that  I  should  give  them  an  opportunity  to  retaliate; 
and,  indeed,  I  have  made  this  remark  only  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  introducing  to  the  company  a  ballad, 
which,  whatever  be  its  other  defects,  is,  I  think,  at  least 
free  from  those  I  have  mentioned.  [Turning  to  Mrs. 
Primrose]     Have  I  your  permission  to  read  it.^ 

Mrs.  Primrose.     We  should  be  delighted  to  hear  it. 

Mr.  Burchell.  [Reads  the  following  stanzas  from  the 
Ballad  of  the  Hermit] 

A  Ballad 

Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

'And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 


Fourth  Year]  Tlw    VicCW    of    Wcikcfield  13 

For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread. 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 

Seem  lengthening  as  I  go. 

** Forbear,  my  son,''  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom; 
For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still; 
And,  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good-will. 

"Then  turn  tonight,  and  freely  share 
Whatever  my  cell  bestows; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare. 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 
I  learn  to  pity  them: 

"  But  from  the  mountain  s  grassy  side 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 
And  loater  from  the  spring. 

"Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  ivrong; 
*Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long."' 


14  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends 

His  gentle  accents  felt: 
The  modest  stranger  toivly  bends. 

And  follows  to  ilie  cell. 

The  reader  stops,  as  voices  are  heard  not  far  away.  They 
all  listen. 

Mrs.  Primrose.  The  Squire  is  returning  with  the 
musicians  and  the  ladies  from  town,  for  the  dance  on 
the  law  n. 

Sophia.  You'll  read  us  the  rest  another  time,  won't  you, 
Mr.  Burchell? 

Mr.  Burchell.  With  pleasure,  if  you  desire  it.  But  now 
I  must  be  going. 

Mrs.  Primrose.  Pray  stay,  and  join  in  the  merry-making 
of  the  evening,  Mr.  Burchell. 

The  Girls.     [Together]     Yes,  do! 

Mr.  Burchell.  No,  I  must  forego  that  pleasure,  for  I  am 
invited  to  a  harvest  supper  five  miles  away,  and  I  must 
hasten.  [Makes  hurried  adieux,  glances  nervously  in  the 
direction  of  the  voices,  which  have  groicn  louder,  and  goes 
out  in  the  opposite  direction] 

Mr.  Thornhill  eriters  ivith  ttco  ladies  who  are  dressed  in 
conspicuous  costumes  made  in  the  height  of  the  London 
fashions.  Olivia  and  Sophia  stand  in  the  background, 
gazing  ivith  awe  at  their  fashionable  guests,  while  Mr. 
Thornhill  introduces  them  to  Mrs.  Primrose. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  Lady  Blarney,  Mrs.  Primrose.  Miss 
Skeggs ! 

The  ladies  curtsy.  Mrs.  Primrose  summons  her 
daughters.  Olivia  and  Sophia  approach  shyly.  While 
these  introductions  are  taking  place,  the  musicians,  tinder 
Mr.  ThornhiWs  directions,  are  placed  in  the  rear- 
center,  allowing  room  for  the  dance. 


rourthYear]  TIlC    VlCai'    of   Wcikcficld  15 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [Again  approaching  Mrs.  Primrose] 
I  took  the  liberty  of  inviting  some  of  your  neighbors  to 
complete  our  company,  Mrs.  Primrose.  They  should 
be  here  by  this  time.     And  here  they  are. 

Enier  the  Miss  Flamboronghs  in  country  finery,  con- 
trasting iciih  the  city  ladies;  their  two  brothers,  and  another 
young  man.  They  are  greeted  by  the  Doctor,  Mrs.  Prim- 
rose, Moses,  and  the  two  daughters.     Introductions  follow. 

Mrs.  Primrose.     You  are  just  in  time,  my  dears. 

Mr.  Thornhill.  [Approaching  Olivia,  who  stands  by  her 
mother  s  side,  and  addressing  Mrs.  Primrose]  With  your 
I^ermission,  madam,  your  oldest  daughter  and  I  will 
lead  the  ball. 

Mrs.  Primrose  nods  consent,  Olivia  shyly  gives  him  her 
hand,  and  they  take  their  places. 

Sophia.  [Who  stands  apart  from  the  merry  company,  looking 
rather  downcast — Aside]    If  Mr.  Burchell  were  only  here! 

The  Chaplain.  [Approaching  Sophia]  May  I  be  hon- 
ored with  Miss  Sophia's  hand? 

She  smilingly  assents,  and  they  take  their  places.  In  the 
meantime,  the  rest  of  the  company  fall  intoplace,  andthedance 
begins.  The  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Primrose  sit  at  one  side  toward 
the  front  of  the  stage,  happily  icatching  the  young  people. 

{If  the  school  possesses  a  lantern  operated  by  electricity,  the 
light  on  this  scene  may  be  gradually  changed  from  daylight 
to  twilight  and  then  to  moonlight.  Otherwise,  the  light  upon 
the  whole  scene  may  be  a  subdued,  early-evening  light.  The 
moonlight  ball  may  be  made  as  simple  or  as  elaborate  as  condi- 
tions demand.  The  minuet  and  old  English  country  dances 
will  be  appropriate.  As  a  closing  figiire  in  the  dances,  the 
characters  on  the  stage  may  group  themselves  in  a  picturesque 
tableau;  or  may  march  off  the  stage,  the  curtain  going  down 
as  the  last  couple  disappears.) 


16  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

THE  PROLOGUE   TO    THE   CANTERBURY    TALES 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 

PREFATORY    NOTE 

Chaucer's  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Talcs  falls  easily  into  two 
scenes,  The  Gathering  of  the  Pilgrims  and  The  Evening  at  the  Tabard. 
The  first  scene  is  well  adapted  to  dramatic  treatment  through  the 
tableau,  accompanied  by  reading;  the  second,  to  regular  dramatization. 

In  scene  i,  for  the  sake  of  brevity,  cuts  are  made  in  Chaucer's 
description  of  the  Pilgrims,  and  certain  characters  are  omitted  alto- 
gether.   Other  cuts  may  be  made  and  other  characters  dropped  if  desired. 

Scene  ii  necessarily  differs  somewhat  from  the  other  dramatizations 
in  this  book.  The  incident  chosen  is  taken  from  the  last  part  of  the 
Prologue;  wherever  possible  Chaucer's  lines  have  been  used;  but  the 
conversation,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  is  largely  new  matter.  In 
a  word,  it  is  a  dramatization  after  Chaucer,  rather  than  Chaucer  drama- 
tized. 

Percy  MacKaye's  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims  contains  a  modern 
development  of  the  song.  Come  Hider,  Lore,  to  Me,  occurring  in  this 
scene,  which  may  be  used  as  a  substitute  for  the  authors'  invention. 
The  music  is  by  Louis  Hann;  it  is  published  by  Bosworth  and 
Company,  London,  1904. 

Prologue 

The  Reader,  dressed  as  Chaucer,  steps  before  the  curtain. 

Reading 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote 

The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  roote. 

And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  Hcour, 

Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; 

Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne. 


Fourth  Year]  Tlic  Cantcrhury  Tales  17 

And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 

That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye 

So  prikcth  hem  nature  in  hir  corages: 

Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 

And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes 

To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 

Of  Engelond,  to  Cauntcrbury  they  wcnde. 

The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke. 

Bifel  that  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tal^ard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Cauntcrbury  with  ful  devout  corage. 
At  night  wxre  come  into  that  hostclrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  compaignye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-falle 
In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Cauntcrbury  wolden  ryde. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 
And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste. 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon. 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon. 
And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 
To  take  our  wcy,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  nathclcs,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun. 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me. 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree; 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  wore  inne: 
And  at  myn  hoste  wol  I  first  beginne. 


18 


Dramatization 


[Fourth  Year 


Scene  I 
The  Gathering  of  the  Pilgrims 


Characters ; 
The  Knight. 
The  Siquire. 
The  Yeoman. 
The  Nun. 
The  Monk. 
The  Friar. 
The  Merchant. 
The  Clerk. 

The  Sergeant  of  the  Law. 
The  Franklin. 


The  Cook. 

The  Shipman. 

The  Doctor. 

The  Wife  of  Bath. 

The  Parson. 

The  Miller. 

The  Manciple. 

The  Rere. 

The  Smnmoner. 

The  Pardoner. 


The  curtain  rises.  The  scene  presents  the  interior 
of  the  hall  of  the  Tabard  Inii.  The  Host  is  discovered 
busying  himself  making  ready  for  guests.  The  Reader 
steps  to  one  side,  hut  keeps  well  to  the  front,  so  that  he  is 
not  a  part  of  the  stage  picture. 

Reading 

A  semely  man  our  hoste  was  withalle 
For  to  ban  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle. 
A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepe, 
A  fairer  burgeys  was  ther  noon  in  Chepe: 
Bold  of  his  speche,  and  wys,  and  wel  y-taught, 
And  of  manhod  him  lakkede  right  naught. 

As  the  lines  descriptive  of  the  characters  are  read  the 
Pilgrims  enter  from  the  rear,  greet  the  Host,  and  then  fall 
into  this  or  that  group,  forming  a  series  of  living  pictures. 
The  Knight,  the  Squire,  and  the  Yeoman  enter  together. 
The  Squire  and  the  Yeoman  talk  in  pantomime  to  each 
other  as  the  Host  greets  the  Knight. 


Fourth  Year]  The  Canterbury  Tales  .  19 

Reading 

A  Knyght  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man. 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  riden  out,  he  lovede  chivah-ye, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisye. 
At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene. 
And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  Tramyssene, 
Yet  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde 
In  al  his  lyf,  unto  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray,  parfit,  gentil  knyght. 
But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors  wercn  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipoun 
Al  bismotered  with  his  habergeoun. 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 

The  Knight  presents  his  son  to  the  Host. 

Reading 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  3'ong  Squyer, 
A  lovyer,  and  a  lusty  bacheler. 
With  lokkes  crulle,  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  delyvere  and  greet  of  strengthe. 
Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede. 
Singing  he  was,  or  floyting,  al  the  day; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  monthe  of  INIay. 
Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde. 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 
So  hote  he  lovede,  that  by  nyghtertale 


20  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

He  sleep  namore  than  doth  a  nyghtingale. 
Curteys  he  was,  lowely,  and  servisable, 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table. 

The  Knight  presents  the  Yeoman  to  the  Host.  While 
the  Host  is  greeting  him,  the  Knight  and  his  son  step  to  one 
side  and  talk  in  pantomime. 

Reading 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servaunts  namo 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  liste  ryde  so; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene; 
A  sheef  of  pecok  arwes  bright  and  kene 
Ful  thriftily  in  his  belt  he  bar,  I  trowe, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 
A  not-heed  hadde  he,  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  wode-craft  wel  coude  he  al  the  usage. 
Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer, 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler. 
And  on  that  other  syde  a  gay  daggere, 
Harneised  wel,  and  sharp  as  poynt  of  spere; 
A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene. 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik  w^as  of  grene; 
A  forster  was  he,  soothly,  as  I  gesse. 

The  Yeoman  joins  the  Knight  and  the  Squire,  as  the 
Nun  enters.  She  carries  in  her  arms  a  small  dog,  and  is 
attended  by  an  elderly  Nun,  who  leads  another  dog  by  a 
string.  The  Host  is  most  effusive  in  his  greeting,  fetches 
chairs,  pats  the  dogs,  etc. 

Reading 

Tlier  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  simple  and  coy; 
Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  Seynte  Loy; 
And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 


Fourth  Year]  Tkc  Canterbury  Tales  21 

Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne. 

And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  disport, 

And  ful  plcsaunt,  and  amiable  of  port. 

She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 

She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 

Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 

With  rosted  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed. 

But  sore  wepte  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed. 

Ful  semely  hir  wimpel  pinched  was: 

Hir  nose  tretys ;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas ; 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  therto  softe  and  reed, 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed, — 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe; 

For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetis  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene, 

And  tlieron  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  sliene. 

On  which  ther  w^as  first  write  a  crowned  A, 

And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

The  Monk  comes  rollicking  in,  the  hells  oil  his  bridle, 
which  hangs  over  his  arm,  jingling  merrily. 

Reading 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrye. 
An  outridere  that  lovede  venerye; 
A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in  stable: 
And  whan  he  rood  men  miglite  his  brydcl  here 
Gynglen  in  a  whistling  wynd  as  clere. 
And  eek  as  loude  as  doth  the  chapel  belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 
This  ilke  monk  leet  olde  thinges  pace, 


22  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

And  held  after  the  ncwe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen 
That  seith  that  hunters  been  nat  holy  men; 
Thcrfore  he  was  a  pricasour  aright; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swiftc  as  fowel  in  flight; 
Of  priking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  seigh  his  sieves  purfiled  at  the  hond 
With  grys,  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond; 
And  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chin. 
He  hadde  of  gold  wroght  a  ful  curious  pin; 
A  love-knot  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balled,  that  shoon  as  any  glas, 
And  eek  his  face,  as  he  hadde  been  anoynt. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  poynt; 
His  eyen  stepe,  and  rollinge  in  his  heed, 
That  stemed  as  a  f orney s  of  a  leed ; 
His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  great  estat. 
Now  certeynly  he  was  a  fair  prelat. 

The  Friar  then  enters  and,  after  greeting  the  Host,  joins 
the  Monk. 

Reading 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye, 
A  ly  my  tour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 
Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun. 
And  pleasaunt  was  his  absolucioun; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  have  a  good  pitaunce; 
His  tipet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  kny  ves 
And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wy ves. 
And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  mery  note; 
Wei  coude  he  singe  and  pleyen  on  a  rote. 


Fourth  Year]  The  Canterbury  Tales  23 

And  he  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope, 
That  rounded  as  a  belle,  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse. 
To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had  songe, 
His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright, 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  lymytour  was  cleped  Huberd. 
llie  Merchant  enters. 

Reading 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  berd, 
In  motteleye,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat. 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat; 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  he  spak  ful  solempnely. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette; 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette. 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  withalle, 
But  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot  how  men  him  calle. 

The  Clerk  enters  slowly,  reading  a  book.     lie  runs  into 
the  Squire,  steadies  himself,  and  then  speaks  to  the  Host. 

Beading: 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  y-go 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake; 
But  loked  holwe,  and  thereto  sobrely. 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy ; 
For  him  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bookes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed, 


24  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye, 
Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,  or  gay  sautrye. 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  freendes  hente, 
On  bookcs  and  his  lerninge  he  it  spente, 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wher  with  to  scoleye. 
Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  hede. 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede. 
Sowninge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche,  ■ 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 
The  Sergeant  of  the  Latv  comes  bustling  in. 

Reading 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  Parvys, 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence: 
He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse. 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas. 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
But  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote, 
Girt  with  a  ceynt  of  silk,  with  barres  smale; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale. 

The  Franldin  enters  in  great  good  humor. 

Reading 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  compaignye; 
Whit  was  his  berd  as  is  the  dayesye; 
Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangwyn. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sope  in  vryn. 
To  liven  in  delit  was  ever  his  wone, 
For  he  was  Epicurus  owne  sone, 


Fourth  Year]  The  Canterbury  Tales  25 

That  heeld  opinioun  that  plcyn  delit 

Was  verraily,  fehcitee  parfit. 

An  housholdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he; 

Seynt  JuHan  he  was  in  his  contree. 

His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 

Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 

An  anlas  and  a  gipser  al  of  silk 

Heng  at  his  girdel,  whyt  as  morne  milk. 

A  shirreve  hadde  he  been,  and  a  countour; 

Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  vavasour. 

The  Cook  comes  in,  the  Shipman  closely  following. 

Reading 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nones, 
To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones. 
And  poudre-marchant  tart,  and  galyngale. 
Wei  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London  ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,  and  boille,  and  frye, 
Maken  mortreux,  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 

Reading 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  woning  fer  by  weste: 
For  aught  I  woot,  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  upon  a  rouncy  as  he  couthe. 
In  a  gowne  of  falding  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hanging  on  a  laas  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hote  somer  hadde  maad  his  hewe  al  broun; 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake; 
With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  been  shake. 
He  knew  ech  cryke  in  JJritaine  and  in  Spayne; 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne. 

The  Doctor  arrives. 


26  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Reading 

With  us  tlicr  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisik, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  hym  lik. 
The  cause  y-knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote. 
Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote. 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries, 
To  sende  him  drogges,  and  his  letuarics, 
For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  wynne; 
Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  bigynne. 
In  sangwin  and  in  pers  he  clad  was  al, 
Lyned  with  taffata  and  with  sendal; 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence; 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 
For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial. 
Therefore  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

The  Wife  of  Bath  enters.  As  she  comes  in,  the  Host  and 
other  Pilgrims  haste7i  to  meet  her  and  conduct  her  to  a  seat.  The 
Squire,  the  Sergeant,  and  the  Doctor  come  crowding  round  her. 

Reading 

A  Good-wyf  was  ther  of  bisyde  Bathe, 
But  she  was  somdel  deef  and  that  was  scathe. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  offringe  bifore  hir  sholde  goon; 
And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn  so  wrooth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Her  coverchiefs  ful  fyne  were  of  ground; 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound, 
That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed. 
Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoos  ful  moiste  and  newe. 
Bold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of  hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  her  lyve. 


TourthYear]  The  Canterbury  Tales  27 

Housbondes  at  chirche-dore  she  hadde  fy  ve. 
She  coiide  moche  of  wandring  by  the  weye. 
Gat-tothed  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Upon  hir  heed  she  hadde  an  hat  as  large 
And  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe, 
Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  percliaunce, 
For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 
Next  enters  the  Parson. 

Reading 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun. 
And  was  a  povre  Persoun  of  a  toiin; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  tlioght  and  werk; 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk. 
Benygne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent. 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient; 
Ne  lafte  he  nat  in  siknes  to  visyte 
The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lyte. 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf , 
That  first  he  wroghte,  and  afterward  he  taughte; 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte. 
He  wayted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  a  spyced  conscience. 
But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  fdlwed  it  himselve. 
The  Miller,  the  Manciple,  and  theReve  next  come  in  together. 

Reading 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the  nones, 
Ful  big  he  was  of  brawn,  and  eek  of  bones; 
That  proved  wel,  for  overal  ther  he  cam. 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram. 


28  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

He  was  short-sholdrcd,  brood,  a  thikke  knarre, 
Tlier  was  no  dorc  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harre, 
Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  bord  as  any  so  we  or  fox  was  reed. 
Y-lyk  a  forneys  was  his  mouth  ful  wyde, 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde. 
And  stelen  corn  that  coude  he  wel,  pardee! 
A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 
A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne, 
And  when  he  played  he  maad  a  greet  frowne. 

Reading 

A  gentil  Maunciple  was  ther  of  a  temple, 
Of  which  achatours  mighte  take  exemple 
For  to  be  wyse  in  byinge  of  vitaille; 
For  whether  that  he  payde,  or  took  by  taille, 
Algate  he  wayted  so  in  his  achaat, 
That  he  was  ay  biforn  and  in  good  staat. 
Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace. 
That  swich  a  lewed  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  heepe  of  lerned  men? 
Of  maistres  hadde  he  mo  than  thryes  ten. 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  falle  or  happe, 
This  worthy  sty  ward  sette  hir  aller  cappe. 

Reading 

The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  man, 
His  berd  was  shave  as  ny  as  ever  he  can. 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  j^-shorn. 
His  top  was  dokked  lyk  a  preest  biforn. 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges  and  ful  lene, 
Y-Iyk  a  staf,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 


fourth  Year]  Tlw  Canterbury  Tales  29 

Wei  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner  and  a  bynne; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him  wynne. 
All  were  adrad  of  him  as  of  the  deeth. 
His  woning  was  ful  fair  upon  an  heeth. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively, 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly, 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owne  good 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote,  and  hood. 
A  long  surcote  of  pers  upon  he  hade, 
And  })y  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 
Tukked  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute. 
He  was  a  worthy  man  withouten  doute. 

Enter  the  Summoner  and  the  Pardoner,  arms  around 
each  other,  singing  loudly,  "'Come  hider,  love,  to  me." 

Reading 

A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place,  , 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face. 
He  loved  to  drinken  strong  wyn,  reed  as  blood. 
Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crye  as  he  were  wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  liadde  the  wyn. 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
To  yonge  girles  yaf  he  mochel  reed. 
A  gerland  hadde  he  set  upon  his  heed, 
As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stake; 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 

Reading 

With  him  ther  rood  a  gontil  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncivale,  his  frecnd  and  his  compeer. 
That  streight  was  comen  fro  the  court  of  Rome, 
Ful  loude  he  song,  "Com  hider,  love,  to  me," 


30  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun, 
Was  never  trompc  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex, 
But  smothe  it  heng,  as  dooth  a  strike  of  flex; 
I5y  ounces  hcnge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And  therwith  he  his  shuldres  overspradde; 
15ut  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons  oon  and  oon; 
But  hood,  for  jolitee,  wered  he  noon, 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  though te  he  rood  al  of  the  newe  jet; 
Dishevele,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swiche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 
No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  never  sholde  have, 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  late  y-shave; 


But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwyk  into  Ware, 
Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 

The  Pilgrims  move  about  from  group  to  group  becoming 
acquainted. 


Reading 

Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
Thestat,  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek  the  cause 
Why  that  assembled  was  this  compaignye 
In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye, 
That  highte  the  Tabard  fast  by  the  belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle 
How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night. 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 

The  Reader  retires. 

Curtain 


Fourth  Year]  Tkc  Canterbury  Tales  31 

Scene  II 
The  Evening  at  the  Tabard 

Characters : 
The  Host.  The  Franklin. 

The  Knight.  Chaucer. 

The  Xun.  The  Doctor. 

The  Monk:  The  Pardoner. 

The  Friar.  The  Summoner. 

The  Wife  of  Bath.  The  Squire. 

Other  Pilgrims  as  in  Scene  I. 

The  curtain  rises  on  the  same  company.  Chaucer  has 
joined  the  Pilgrims  and  mores  about  from  group  to  group. 
All  are  merrily  chatting. 

The  Host.     [Stepping  forward  to  the  Pilgrims] 
Now,  Lordinges  trewely 

Ye  been  to  me  right  welcome  hertely: 

For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 

I  ne  saugh  this  yeer  so  mery  a  compaignye 

At  ones  in  this  herberwe  as  is  now; 

Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  mirthe,  wiste  I  how. 
The  Knight.     [Stepping  toward  the  Host] 

We  goon  to  Caunterbury;  God  us  spede, 

The  blisful  martir  quite  us  our  mede! 

Com,  ryden  with  us  on  our  pilgrimage. 

And  ye  shal  doon  us  mirth,  on  this  viage. 
The  Host. 

1  wol  myselven  gladly  with  yow  rydc. 

Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  your  gyde. 

But  Cometh  to  soper,  sitte  down  evcrichon. 

Strong  wyn  and  vitaille  shal  be  fet  anon. 

[With  much  ado  he  seats  the  Pilgrims — Boving  to  Chaucer] 

Daun  Chaucer,  on  this  deys  now  tak  your  place. 

If  that  yow  wol  oure  lowcly  tabic  grace. 


32  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

[Chaucer  takes  a  seat  at  the  head  of  the  hoard.] 
Sill  Knkjiit. — Sit  here  my  lady   Prioresse, 
And  ye,  sir  Clerk,  lat  he  your  shamfastnesse. 

[The  Host  seats  them  as  he  speaks.] 
Good  Wyf  of  Bathe,  sit  next  the  yong  Squyer, 
And  on  your  left,  another  bachelor. 
The  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
Shal  place  tak  withouten  more  avys. 
Com,  Epicurus  sone,  myn  Frankeleyn, 
Sit  now,  and  lat  me  serve  a  sope  in  wyn. 
Here  Doctour,  Marchant,  Shipman,  Pilgrims  alle, 
Taketh  place  I  preye  as  it  may  chance  to  falle. 

They  all  seat  themselves. 

The  Nun. 

Pardon,  monsieur,  but  herken,  if  yow  leste. 

By  Seynte  Loy,  prey  graunte  myn  requeste. 

My  houndes  that  I  love  ful  tenderly, 

May  eat  with  us  this  soper  sikerly? 

And  eke  some  rosted  flesh  and  wastel  breed. 

O  graunte  this  or  elles  am  I  deed! 
The  Host.     [Stops  a  moment  as  he  is  about  to  pass  food 
and  drink] 

Your  wish  is  graunted.  Madam  Eglentyne. — 

And  now,  my  Pilgrims,  lat  the  feast  bigynne. 
The  Nun. 

Merci,  myn  Iloste,  merci,  yow  are  most  kynde; 

A  bettre  man  is  nowher  noght  to  fynde. 

[Pilgrims  eat  and  drink,  the  Host  passes  from  guest  to  guest] 
The  Host. 

Now,  Pilgrims,  wol  I  maken  yow  disport 

As  I  seyde  erst,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 

And  of  a  mirthe  I  am  right  now  bithoght 

To  doon  you  ese,  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 


Fourth  Year]  The  Canterbury  Tales  33 

The   Monk. 

Now,  by  my  grehoundes  swifte  as  fowel  in  flight, 

What  is  this  mirthe?     We  feyne  wolde  know  this  night. 
The   Squire. 

We  feyne  wolde  know  this  night! —     , 
The   Host. 

This  is  the  poynt,  to  spekcn  short  and  pleyn. 

But  tak  it  nought,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn, 

That  ech  of  yow,  to  shorte  with  your  wcye. 

In  this  viage  shal  telle  tales  tweyc, 

To  Caunterbury-ward,  I  niene  it  so. 

And  honi-ward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two. 
All  clap  hands  delightedly. 
The  Monk. 

Certes,  Sir  Hoste,  as  we  goon  by  the  weye. 

We'll  shapen  us  to  talen  and  to  plcye. 
The   Friar. 

For  trewely  confort  ne  mirthe  is  noon 

To  ride  by  the  wcye  doumb  as  a  stoon. 
The   Wife   of   Bath. 

Sir  Hoste,  I  prey  yow,  may  I  yow  devyse, 

About  myn  housbandes  fyve  al  faire  and  wyse? 

My  love  charms  wold  I  yeve  the  young  Scpiyer, 

The  lovyer  and  the  lusty  bacheler. 
The  Host.     [Bowing  to  her] 

With  ful  glad  hcrte,  madame,  on  this  viage. 

But  speck  up  loud,  with  right  a  greet  corage. — 

With  eek  a  mery  chere  shal  tellen  alle 

Of  aventurcs  that  whilom  lian  bifalle. 
The   Wife   of   Bath. 

I  yeve  yow,  by  myn  housbandes  that  are  deed. 

My  forward;  eck  I'll  kepe  ful  wcl  your  reed. 
The   Franklin. 

Myn  Hoste,  and  wol  yow  be  our  governour 

And  of  oure  tales  juge  and  roportour? 


34  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

The  Host. 

A  Goddes  name,  I  graunt  yow  this  requeste. 
To  herkne  to  your  tales  and  juge  the  beste. 
And  which  of  yow  that  telleth  in  this  case 
Talcs  of  best  sentence  and  most  solas, 
Shal  have  a  soper  at  oure  aller  cost 
Here  in  this  place,  sitting  by  this  post. 
And  who-so  wol  my  jugement  withseye 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 

Chaucer.     [Rising] 

We  vouchesauf  for  to  do  so,  myn  hoste. — 
And  now,  lat  see,  what  hath  this  soper  coste? 

The  guests  rise  from  the  table  and  group  themselves  as 
they  ivish. 

The  Host. 

A-morwe  shal  yow  han  your  rekeninges. — 
Now  lat  us  speke  of  mirthe  and  othere  thinges. 

Chaucer. 

Perchaunce  myn  Hoste,  the  gentil  Pardoner 
Will  sing,  or  elles  his  frecnd  and  his  compeer, 
"Com  hider,  love,  to  me,"  a  mery  note. 
And  pleyen  eek  the  burdoun  on  the  rote. 

The  Doctor. 

Lat  singen,  Hoste,  "Come  hider,  love,  to  me," 
For  now  that  we  have  supped  we'll  esed  be. 

The  Host. 

Sing,  gentil  Pardoner  and  Somnour  kynde. 

For  bettre  singers  sholde  men  noght  fynde. 

They  sing  to  the  great  glee  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Song. 
Come  Hider,  Love,  to  Me 

Come  hider,  love,  to  me. 
Thy  swete  eyes  lat  me  see. 


Fourth  Year]  The  Canterbury  Tales  35 

Now  look  up  bright. 
My  heart's  delight. 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 

Come  hider,  love,  to  me ! 
My  true  love  you  shal  be. 
And  now,  my  tresure. 
We'll  dance  a  mesure. 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 
Great  applause  as  they  finish. 
Chaucer. 

Com,  doon  us  mirthc,  also  my  young  Squyer, 
My  lovyer  and  my  lusty  bachelor; 
Singing  yow  are  or  floyting  al  the  day, 
And  are  as  frcsshe  as  is  the  monthe  of  May. 
Com,  now,  a  love  song  yow  can  wel  endyte. 
Sing  tenderly  and  give  us  greet  delyte. 
The  Squire  sings  and  plays. 
Song 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long 
Is  the  burdoun  of  my  song. — 
My  love  has  cheeks  as  fair  as  the  May, 
And  the  sheen  upon  her  hair  is  bright  as  day; 
And  her  eyes  are  sparkling,  too. 
As  she  glances  up  at  you. 
True  love,  dear  love. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long. 

The  Host     [After  the  applause   ivhich  greets  the  Squire  at 
the  end  of  his  song  has  subsided]. 
'Tis  late  my  f  reends  and  erly  must  yow  ryse. 
Com,  Pilgrims,  com  wi  thou  ten  more  avyse! 
Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale 
On  our  viage  to-morwe.  Pilgrims  alle. 


36  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Cometh  neer,  cometh  ncer,  my  lady  Prioresse, 
I  prey,  sir  Clerk,  lat  be  your  shamfustnesse. 
And  ye,  sir  Knight,  my  maistCr  and  my  lord, 
Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  accord. 

[They  draw  lots] 
Now  by  my  fader  soule,  it  is  the  Knight 
By  aventure  or  cas;  eek  is  it  right! 

The  Knight. 

Myn  Hoste,  syn  I  shal  bigynne  the  game. 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut  a  Goddes  name! 
A-morwe  shal  yow  herkne  that  I  seye, 
Whyl  Caunterbury-ward  we  tak  our  weye. 

The  Host. 

Com,  Miller,  \^t  your  baggepipe  sowne! 

A-morwe  you  shal  lead  us  out  of  towne. 

Fall  in  myn  Pilgrims,  fall  in  tweyc  by  tweye, 

Right  so  as  we  shal  gon  upon  our  weye. 

A  mery  round,  we'll  mak  about  the  h^ille 

And  than,  myn  freends,  good  night,  to  ech  and  alle. 

The  Pilgrims  fall  in  and  march  to  the  sound  of  the  bag- 
pipe, or  some  other  nuisical  instrument,  the  Miller  leading. 
The  procession  moves  off  the  stage,  down  in  to  the  audience 
room,  around  the  aisles  and  up  on  to  the  stage  again,  form- 
ing a  tableau  to  center. 

Curtain 


rourthYear]  Gaixth  cuul  Lijuette  37 

THE  IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING 

Alfred,  Lord  Tonnyson 

PREFATORY   NOTE 

Gareth  and  Lynctfe  is  essentially  an  out-of-door  Id])U,  and  hcnco  it 
presents  few  difficulties  in  staging.  In  the  dramatization  here  given, 
the  following  changes  are  made  to  meet  high  school  conditions:  scene  ii 
takes  place  in  tlie  courtyard  instead  of  in  Arthur's  hall;  Garcth's  first 
two  combats  are  omitted;  scene  iii  opens  near  the  end  of  the  encounter 
with  Lancelot;  and  Gareth's  final  test  is  a  hand-to-hand  combat. 

Because  of  the  large  number  of  descriptive  and  explanatory  passages 
in  Tennyson's  Idylls,  the  change  to  dramatic  form  necessitates  the 
interpolation  of  many  lines  and  parts  of  lines. 

Many  of  the  Idylls,  though  not  admitting  of  dramatization  as  com- 
plete units,  arc  rich  in  dramatic  incidents  which  can  be  worked  up  singly 
or  in  groups.    The  selected  episodes  from  Lancelot  and  Elaine  are  typical. 

GARETH   AND   LYNETTE 

Scene  I 

Gareth's  Plea 

Characters : 
Gareth. 
Bellicent,  Gareth's  Mother. 

The  stage  represents  a  spring  landscape,  the  general  setting 
throughout  the  play.  Gareth  is  discovered  alone. 

Gareth. 

How  he  went  down,  that  slender-shafted  Pine! 
Down  the  swift-rushing  cataract  whirk^d  away. 
As  faithless  knight,  or  evil  minded  king 
Before  my  lance,  if  lance  were  mine  to  use! 
Alas!  no  lance  is  mine,  nor  yet  may  be. 


38  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a  child! 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me! 
A  worse  were  better;  yet  no  worse  would  I. 
Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put  force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous  prayer, 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highcring  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence  swoop 
Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash  them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur  working  out  his  will — 
I  do  but  dream! — How  shall  I  e'er  prevail! 
Enter  Bellicent. 

Bellicent. 

What  is  it,  child?     Art  weary  of  thy  play? 

Gareth. 

O  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still  the  child. 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child? — Thou  dost? 

Bellicent. 

Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question  it. 

Gareth.     [Appealmgly] 

Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  thy  self-willed  child. 
Let   him   go   hence!    [Somewhat   impatiently] — I   cannot 
tarry  here ! 

Bellicent. 

Nay,  nay,  thou  art  too  young,  my  Gareth,  stay! 

Gareth, 

Too  young! — Why,  Gawain,  when  he  hither  came, 
Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven  knight. 
Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he  said, 
"Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me,"  said  so — he — 

Bellicent. 

Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 

Gareth. 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tethered  to  you — shame. 
Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do! 


Fourth  Year]  GttJ'eth  mid  Lyuette  39 

Bellicent. 

Wilt  walk  thro'  fire,  my  son,  to  gain  tliy  will? 
Gareth. 

Yea,  Mother!     [Eagerly]     May  I  then  — 
Bellicent. 

Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must:  only  one  proof. 

Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee  knight, 

Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 

Thy  mother, — I  demand — 
Gareth.     [With  boyish  impatience] 

A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  1  go!   . 

Nay — quick!  the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the  quick! 
Bellicent. 

Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to  Arthur's  hall. 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and  drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen-knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the  bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one; 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day. 
Gareth.     [After  a  momenVs  ineditation] 

The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul. 

And  I  shall  see  the  jousts!     What  matters  else! 

I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will!     [Kneeling] 

Curtain 

Scene  II 
Gareth "s  Quest 

Characters : 

Lancelot.  Lynette. 

Gareth.  G  air  a  in. 

Bedivere.  Kdi/- 

King  Arthur.      Other  Knights. 


40  Dramatization  rrourth  Year 

The  stage  represents  the  courtyard  of  Arthur's  castle.  On 
the  platform  in  the  rear  is  the  King's  throne,  a  chair  covered  vrith 
red  cloth  decorated  iviih  the  golden  dragons.  This  symbol 
should  he  made  a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  scene,  appearing  in 
banners,   and   icherever  else  it   may   be  appropriately   used. 

The  King, 

I  told  thee,  Lancelot,  of  our  new  knight, 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

Content  to  serve  in  kitchen  vassalage 

A  twelve-month  and  a  day,  that  he  might  be 

At  last  a  member  of  our  Table  Round! 

No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks   . 

Is  Kay,  and  yet  our  Gareth  served  him  well, 

In  uttermost  obedience  to  his  vow. 

I  made  him  knight  in  secret,  at  his  will. 
Lancelot. 

But  wherefore  would  he  men  should  wonder  at  him? 
The  King. 

He  answered,  gayly,  when  I  questioned  thus, 
"Have  I  not  earn'd  my  cake  in  baking  of  it? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name! 

My  deeds  will  speak:  it  is  but  for  a  day." 
Lancelot. 

And  did  he  know  that  I  should  know  the  truth? 
The  King. 

Yea,  Lancelot,  in  granting  him  his  boon, 

I  said,  "Our  Lancelot,  our  truest  man. 

And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must  know." 
Lancelot. 

And  hast  thou  granted  him  a  quest,  my  King, 

To  prove  himself  of  utter  hardihood? 
The  King. 

I  have  given  him  the  first  quest:  he  is  not  proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  today. 


Fourth  Year].  Gavcth  Giul  Lyiiette  41 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  from  afar, 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 

Far  as  thou  maycst,  he  be  nor  ta'cn  nor  slain. 
Lancelot. 

I  go,  my  King,  but  wait  my  summons  near! 

The  King  seats  himself  on  the  throne  chair,  with  pages 

and   other   attendants   to    right    and   left.      Gareth    enters 

from  the    right,    folloiced    by   Kay,    the    Seneschal,    and 

the  kitchen  knaves.     Lyneite  rushes  in  from  the  left,  with 

hair  disheveled  and  garments  torn,  and  falls  at  the  King's 

feet. 
Lynette. 

O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe  without. 

See  to  the  foe  within!  bridge,  ford,  beset 

By  bandits,  everyone  that  owns  a  tower 

The  Lord  for  half  a  league.     Why  sit  ye  there? 

Rest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  I  were  king. 

Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar-cloth 

From  that  best  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill. 
The  King. 

Comfort  thyself,  fair  scorner,  I  nor  mine 

Rest:  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows  they  swore, 

The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall  be 

Safe,  damsel,  as  the  center  of  this  hall. 

What  is  thy  name?  thy  need? 
Lynette. 

My  name,  Sir  King,  Lynette;  my  need,  a  knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 

A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 

And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  myself. 
Gawain. 

Nay,  that  could  never  be!     Fairer,  perchance, 

But  comelier? — Nay  — 


42  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

The  King.     [To  Gawain] 

My  Gawain,  cease!  —  The  damsel  seems  in  haste! 
Ilcr  need  is  pressing; — let  us  hear  her  tale — 

[Turning  to  Lynette] 
Where  dwells  thy  sister,  Lady  Lyonors? 

Lynette. 

She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous:  a  river 

Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living  place; 

And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three  knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a  fourth 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  her  stay'd 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed  with  him. 

The  King. 

Has  no  one  yet  assayed  to  battle  with  him? 
Hast  thou  no  brother,  child,  to  right  thy  w^rongs? 

Lynette. 

Nay,  Liege,  we  are  alone; — but  this  bold  knight 
Delays  his  purport  till  thou  send  to  him 
Thy  bravest  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot. 
Him,  O  Sir  King,  he  hopes  to  overthrow. 
And  wed  my  sister,  Lyonors — but  she, 
Save  whom  she  loveth,  willeth  not  to  wed — 
Now,  therefore,  am  I  come  for  Lancelot. 

Gareth.     [To  Bedivere,  aside] 

Would  I  had  proved  myself  by  knightly  deeds 
A  worthy  knight  to  undertake  this  quest! 
But  now,  alas,  this  quest  is  not  for  me! 
Yet  he  did  promise  me  — 

The  King.     [Seriously] 

Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to  crush 

All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.     But  say,  these  four. 

Who  be  they?     What  the  fashion  of  the  men? 


Fourth  Year]  Gaveth  Gud  Lyuette  43 

Lynette. 

They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir  King, 

The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 

Who  ride  abroad,  and  do  but  what  they  will. 
The  King.     [To  Bedivere] 

We  thought  to  banish  such  from  out  our  Realm. 
Bedivere. 

Yea,  some,  not  all.     Such  things  may  never  be 

While  men  are  men,  by  earthly  passions  swayed. 
The  King.     [To  Lynette] 

Thou  sayest  there  be  three  who  guard  the  way 

Along  the  winding  loops  of  that  fair  stream. 

That  runs  about  thy  sister's  living  place? 
Lynette. 

Yea,  King,  and  these  same  three  do  call  themselves 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening-Star. 

The  fourth,  who  always  rideth  arm'd  in  black, 

A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener  Death. 
Gawain.     [Throwing  himself  at  the  King's  feet] 

O  King,  thy  Lancelot  is  not  here,  let  me 

But  serve  this  damsel  — 
Lynette. 

Nay  King — 
Gahetii.     a  boon.  Sir  King,  —  this  quest  — 
Kay.     [Scornfully] 

A  kitchen  knave  on  such  a  quest,  forsooth! 

(fAKETH. 

Yea,  scoffing  Seneschal,  this  boon  I  ask! 
The  King  doth  know  I  am  his  kitchen  knave, 
But  mighty  through  his  meats  and  drinks  am  I, 
And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  suchi* 

[To  King] 
Thy  promise,  King! — '[Throwing  himself  at  the  King's  feet] 


44  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

The  King.     [Motioning  him  to  rise] 

Yea,  Garclh  —  Rough,  sudden, — 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight. 
Lynette.     [Angrily] 

Fie  on  thee.  King!     I  asked  for  thy  chief  knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen  knave! 
Turning,  she  goes  swiftly  away. 
The  King.     [To  Gareth] 

An  thou  would'st  undertake  this  quest,  make  haste! 

The  damsel  hath  a  brave  and  dauntless  heart, 

And  spirit  high,  that  matcheth  well  thine  own. 
Gareth. 

God  bless  the  King  and  all  his  fellowship! 
All  go  out  except  Kay  and  his  knaves. 
Kay. 

My  scullion  knave!     And  bound  upon  a  quest 

With  horse  and  arms! — the  King  hath  past  his  time! 

My  scullion  Jcnave !     Thralls,  to  your  work  again. 

For  an  your  fire  be  low,  ye  kindle  mine. 
Curtain 

Between  scenes  ii  and  Hi,   Gareth    overthrows,   in    single 
combat,  Morning-Star,  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening-Star. 

Scene  III 
The  Encounter  with  Lancelot 

Characters : 

Gareth. 

Lancelot. 

Lynette. 

This  scene  takes  place  ivhile  the  stage  is  being  more  elabo- 
rately set  for  scene  iv.     A   drop-curtain  can  easily  be  pro- 


Fourth  Year]  Gavetk  and  Lynette  45 

vided,  tvith  little  exyenfie,  suggesting  a  background  of  woods. 
The  horses  of  the  knights  are  supposed  to  be  at  a  little  distance, 
the  closing  part  of  the  combat  being  on  foot.  The  curtain  rises 
on  the  sound  of  combat:  Gareth  do7cn,  Lancelot,  visor  lowered, 
shield  blank,  standing  over  him;  Lynette  near  by. 

Gareth.     [Laughing  lightly]     Ha!     Ila!     Ha! 
Lynette.     [Scoffingly] 

Dost  laugh  to  be  so  lightly  overthrown? 

I  scent  again  the  savor  of  the  meats! 

0  kitchen  knave,  thus  shamed  and  overthrown. 
Lancelot. 

Arise,  good  youth.     No  shame  is  this — Nay,  damsel' 
Gareth  laughs  again. 
Lynette. 

Why  laugh  ye? — that  ye  blew  your  boast  in  vain? 
[Mockingly] 
"There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his  great  self, 

Hath  force  to  quell  me,  should  he  now  appear." 
Gareth.     [Laughs] 

That  boast  was  but  because  you  smiled  on  me! 
Lynette. 

Why  laugh  ye  then? 
Gareth. 

Oh,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 

Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bellicent, 

And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  tlie  ford. 

And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  he  thrown  by  whom 

1  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness. — 
Out,  sword;  we  are  thrown! — . 

He  draws  his  sword. 
Lynette.     [Aside,  in  astonishment] 

Prince!     Kniuht  of  Arthur!     Son  of  Belhcent! 


46  Dramaiizaiion  [Fourth  Year 

Lancelot.  • 

0  Garcth — thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 

Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole. 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted  him. 

Gareth. 

Lancelot!     Thou — Lancelot!- — thine  the  hand 
That  threw  me.'     An  some  chance  to  mar  the  boast 
Thy  brethren  of  thee  make — which  could  not  chance — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser  spear, 
Shamed  had  I  been,  and  sad — O  Lancelot — thou! 

Lynette.     [Petidanilyl     Lancelot! — 

Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd?  and  wherefore  now 

Come  ye,  not  call'd?     I  gloried  in  my  knave, 

Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer  still 

Courteous  as  any  knight — but  now,  if  knight. 

The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd  and  trick'd. 

And  only  wondering  wherefore  play'd  upon: 

And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be  scorn'd. 

Where  should  be  truth,  if  not  in  Arthur's  hall. 

In  Arthur's  presence?     Knight,  knave,  prince  and  fool, 

1  hate  thee  and  for  ever. 
Gareth. 

Nay,  damsel,  these  are  words  of  waywardness:    . 
But  yesterday,  when  that  same  fight  was  o'er. 
Thy  voice  was  gentle;  thou  did'st  smile  on  me 
And  called  me  by  thy  side,  to  ride  with  thee. 
Then  hate  me  not  today  — 
Lancelot. 

Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth!  knight  art  thou 

To  the  King's  best  wish.  [Turning  to  Lynette]  O  damsel, 

be  you  wise 
To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  overthrown? 
Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  manv  a  time. 


Fourth  Tear]  Garctli  aiid  Lyiiette  47 

Victor  from  vanquish 'd  issues  at  the  last, 
An  overthrovver  from  being  overthrown. — 

[Turning  io  Gareth] 
And  thou  art  weary;  yet  not  less  I  felt 
Th}'  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance  of  thine. 
Well  hast  thou  done;  for  all  the  stream  is  freed. 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on  his  foes, 
And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  graciously, 
And  makest  merry  when  thou'rt  overthrown. 
Come,  damsel,  cease  thy  railing. — Kitchen  knave? 
Nay,  Prince,  and  Knight  of  our  good  Table  Round. 
Lynette.     [Still  half- pel ulantly] 

Ay  well — ay  well — for  worse  than  being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self — but  we 
Must  rest.     The  quest  is  not  yet  o'er — a  cave. 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and  drinks, 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 

[To  Gareth  icith  a  'playful  glance  at  Lancelot,  not  seen 
by  Gareth] 

Lead,  and  w^e  follow.  Knave !     Sir  Gareth !     Prince ! 
Seek  till  ye  find.     We'll  tarrj^  by  the  way; 
Tho'  I  am  weary — yet  I  would  not  sleep. 

Gareth  goes  in  search  of  the  cave. 
Lynette.     [She  sta7ids  a  moment,  vatching  Gareth  as  he  goes, 
with  a  smile] 

Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honeysuckle 
In  the  liush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were  one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness! 
O  Lancelot,  Lancelot,  see  my  kitchen  knave! 
Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly  knave 
Is  knight  and  noble.     See  now,  sworn  have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass. 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with  him. 


48  Dramatization  rrourtiiYoar 

Thus,  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first; 
Who  doubts  thee  victor?  so  will  my  knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplishment. 

Lancelot. 

Fret  not!     But  peradventure  he,  you  name, 
May  know  my  shield.     Let  Garcth,  an  he  will, 
Change  his  for  mine,  and  so  fulfil  his  quest. 

Lynette. 

A  gracious  thought,  my  lord,  and  Lancelot-like! 
Courteous  in  this.  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in  all! 
But  my  knight-knave  has  found  ere  this  the  spot 
Where  we  must  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep  awhile, 
And  reach  the  black  pavilion  of  our  foe. 
Before  the  stars  have  faded  in  the  sky. 
Curtain 

Scene  IV 

The  Victory 

Characters : 
Gareth.  Lancelot. 

Lynette.  Lyonors. 

Boy. 

Enter  Lancelot,  Lynette,  Gareth,  left.  To  the  right  is 
'pitched  the  pavilion  of  Death.  Above  and  a  little  beyond, 
are  seen  the  balcony,  towers,  etc.  of  Lyonors'  castle.  The 
background  for  this  scene  can  be  paiJited,  or  purchased  in 
sections. 

Gareth.     [Laughing] 

See  yonder  star,  swift- glancing  down  the  sky! 

Lo,  damsel,  'tis  an  omen — the  foe  falls. 
Lynette,     [Taking  hold  of  Lancelot's  shield  now  borne  by 

Gareth] 


Fourth  Ysar]  Gai'etli  aucl  Lynette  49 

Yield,  yield  him  this  again;  'tis  he  must  fight: 
I  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yesterday 
Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on  Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  his  own  shield:  wonders  ye  have  done, 
Miracles  ye  cannot:  here  is  glory  enow 
In  having  flung  the  three:     I  see  thee  maim'd. 
Mangled:     I  swear  thou  canst  net  fling  the  fourth. 

Gareth. 

And  wherefore,  damsel?  tell  nic  all  ye  know! 
You  cannot  scare  me;  nor  rough  face  or  Noice, 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appal  me  from  the  quest — 

Lynette. 

Nay,  Prince,  my  Knight, 
God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  the  face. 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  infant  flesh. 
Monster! — O  Prince,  I  went  for  Lancelot  first. 
The  quest  is  Lancelot's:  give  him  back  the  shield! 

Gareth.     [Laughmg] 

Yea,  an  he  win  it  in  fair  fight  with  me 
Thus — and  not  else. 

Lancelot. 

Nay,  keep  the  shield,  and  show  this  maid  once  mor3 
What  dauntless  spirit  dwells  in  thy  young  heart. 

Gareth, 

What  light  is  yonder,  midst  the  darkness,  there? 

Lynette. 

The  light  from  Death's  pavilion,  black  as  night. 
But  stay,  I — 

Gareth. 

Nay,  damsel,  stay  me  not — but  let  mc  go. 

Lancelot. 

Remember,  Knight,  the  rules  I  gave  to  thee: 
How  best  to  manage  lance,  and  sword,  and  shield. 


50  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Gareth.     [Laughing] 

I  shall  forget,  I  fear;  I  know  but  one, 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to  win! 

Lynette. 

Heaven  help  thee,  O  my  knight — Oh,  Lancelot! 

See  j)oemfor  stage^'business:'"  blowing  of  horn — appearance 
of  lights— sound  of  muffledvoices — Lady  Lyonors  aiioindow, 
with  maids — appearance  of  Death  with  opening  of  pavilion. 

Gareth.     [Meeting  Death  in  center — lights  very  dim] 
Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength  of  ten. 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God  hath  given. 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more. 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and  the  clod, 
Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pit}^? — Speak,  an  if  thou  canst! 

[Pauses  a  moment,  but  no  response  comes] 
Art  ready,  then,  thou  voiceless  fool,  to  try 
Thy  lance  'gainst  mine,  that  hath  thy  brothers  slain? 

Gareth  strikes  at  him;  Death  falls  to  the  ground,  then 
slowly  rises.  Gareth  splits  the  skull;  and  the  Boy  steps  forth. 

Boy. 

Knight,  slay  me  not,  my  brethren  bade  me  do  it. 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house. 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 

Gareth. 

My  child,  what  madness  made  thee  challenge  send 
To  Arthur's  chief  est  knight.  Sir  Lancelot? 

Boy. 

Fair  Sir,  my  brothers  fierce,  they  bade  me  do  it. 
They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the  King's  friend. 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on  the  stream. 

Lyonors.     [Who  has  descended  from  the  castle,  greets  Lynette 
and  moves  toward  Gareth] 


TourthYear]  Gavetk  and  Lynette  51 

My  thanks,  Sir  Knight,  that  bearest  a  shield  I  know, 
Tho'  thou  art  not  the  owner  of  the  shield. 

Lancelot.     [Coming  from  the  shadows] 
Our  knight  has  honored  it  in  using  it. 

Lyonors.     [In  astonishment] 
Sir  Lancelot!     Sir  Lancelot; — 

Lynette. 

What  said  I  yesterday  in  petty  rage? 

Far  worse  than  being  fooled  of  others,  'tis 

To  fool  one's  self.     How  we  have  fooled  ourselves 

In  foolish  fears — our  long-time  dreaded  foe 

No  fearful  monster,  but  this  blooming  lad ! 

And,  sister  Lyonors,  we  owe  our  joy 

To  one  I  scoffed  and  scorned  as  kitchen-knave! 

Lyonors.     [With  arm  about  Lynette] 

Be  gracious.  Prince,  and  thus  increase  our  debt. 
Forgive  the  wayward  mood  of  this  dear  child! 

Gareth. 

Nay,  Lady  Lyonors,  the  debt  is  mine. 
As  for  forgiveness,  ask  this  damsel  here. 
If  still  she  scents  upon  the  evening  breeze 
The  savors  of  my  kitchen  vassalage! 

Lynette. 

Nay,  nay, — forgive,  my  Prince,  remember  not — 

Lyonors. 

Let  be — and  come  within  my  castle,  friends: 
King  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  and  our  brave  Prince; 
This  poor  lad,  too, — and  we  will  rest  till  morn, 
In  sleep  untroubled  by  the  dreaded  foe, 
Thanks  to  my  sister  and  her  gallant  knight. 
And  when  the  morrow  springs  from  underground. 
We'll  celebrate  our  gratitude  in  song. 
In  feast,  and  dance,  and  merry  minstrelsy. 
Curtain 


52  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE 

Scene  I 
Lancelot  at  the  Castle  of  Astolat 

Characters: 
Lancelot.         Lord  of  Astolat. 
Elaine.  Sir  Lavaine. 

Sir  Torre. 

The  stage  represents  the  courtyard  of  the  castle  of  Astolat. 
If  scenery  is  possible,  the  hachgronnd  may  he  painted  to  sug- 
gest the  wall  and  toivers  of  the  castle  itself.  But  an  out-of- 
door  setting,  representing  a  summer  landscape,  with  vine- 
covered  walls  at  the  sides  and  in  the  rear,  will  answer  the 
purpose.  Elaine,  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  Sir  Lavaine,  and  Sir 
Torre  are  discovered  as  the  curtain  rises,  laughing  at  a  jest 
among  themselves.  Lancelot  enters  from  the  opposite  side; 
the  Lord  of  Astolat  approaches  to  greet  the  stranger. 

Lord  of  Astolat. 

Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name 

Li  vest  between  the  Hps?  for  by  thy  state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of  those, 

After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 

Him  have  I  seen:  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown. 

Lancelot. 

Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 


Fourth  Year]  Laucelot  (1)1(1  Ekiiue  53 

At  Camelot  for  tlie  diamond,  ask  me  not. 

Hereafter  ye  shall  know  me — and  the  shield — 

I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have, 

Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not  mine. 
Lord  of  Astolat. 

Your  boon,  Sir  Knij^ht,  is  in  our  power  to  grant: 

Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre. 

And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
Sir  Torre. 

Yea,  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ye  may  have  it. 
Lord  of  Astolat.     [Laughing] 

Fie!     Fie!     Sir  Churl,  be  gracious  to  our  guest! 

Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
[To  Lancelot] 

Allow  him!  but  Lavainc,  my  younger  here. 

He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride, 

Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an  hour, 
[Jesibigly] 

And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 

To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before. 
Sir   Lavaine. 

Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shjime  me  not 

Before  this  noble  knight,-^a  jest  no  more! 

I  did  but  play  on  Torre:  he  seemed  so  vext. 

And  sullen  that  he  could  not  go  to  joust. 
[To  Lancelot] 

Sir  Knight,  believe  me,  'twas  a  jest,  no  more. 
Lancelot. 

But  tell  the  jest  to  me!     Methinks  this  spot. 

So  far  from  Court  and  from  its  buzzing  crowds, 

Might  bring  sweet  laughter  back  to  lips  unused 

To  mirth  that  lights  the  heart,  and  lips,  and  eyes! 
Sir  Lavaine. 

To  one  who  sits  at  Arthur's  Table  Round, 


54  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

'Tis  but  a  simple,  foolish  little  tale. 
Our  thoughts  have  dwelt  of  late  upon  this  joust; 
And  last  night  as  she  sle})t,  our  sister  dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream, 
The  castle- well,  belike;  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was  jest. 

Lancelot.     [Aside] 

No  diamond  pure  could  grace  a  worthier  brow! 

Sir  Lavaine. 

O  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  ye  will, 

To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight: 

Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win. 

Lancelot. 

So  ye  w411  grace  me  with  your  fellowship. 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself, 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend: 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond,  if  ye  may. 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will. 

Sir  Torre.     [Impaiiently] 

Such  fair  large  diamonds  be  for  stately  queens 
And  not  for  simple  maids.  —  She  needs  them  not. 

Lancelot. 

If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair. 

And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  this  maid 

Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like. 

Sir  Torre. 

Such  words,  that  savor  of  King  Arthur's  Court, 


Fourth  Year]  Lcuicclot  ttiid  Elaine  55 

As  ill  become  the  quiet  of  our  home, 

As  costly  diamonds  our  simple  maid. 
Lord  of  Astolat. 

Nay,  Torre — let  be. — But  come.  Sir  Knight,  within. 

When  you  have  been  refreshed  with  meat  and  drink, 

The  best  that  far-off  Astolat  affords, 

And  entertained  with  minstrel  melody. 

We  fain  would  hear  of  Arthur's  noble  deeds, 

And  of  great  Lancelot,  his  bravest  knight; 

And  all  the  glories  of  his  Table  Round. 

Such  news  comes  rarely  to  our  quiet  hall, 

Remote  among  the  solitary  downs. 
Lancelot. 

I  '11  gladly  tell  ye  of  his  glorious  wars. 

I  never  saw  his  like;  there  never  lived 

A  king  so  great  in  knightly  deeds  as  he. 
Elaine.     [Who  has   been   staiiding   apart  from  the  others, 

aside]     Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord. — 
Sir  Lavaine.     [Joyously,  as  they  more  toward  the  castle] 

And  then  tomorrow  to  the  Diamond  Joust! 
Curtain 

Scene  II 

The  Trust 

Characters: 
Lancelot. 
Elaine. 
Sir  Lavaine. 

The  time  is  early  morning.  Another  part  of  the  court- 
yard of  the  castle  is  suggested  by  a  vine-covered  uall  and 
gateway,  or  if  the  latter  is  impossible,  a  drop-cnrfain  can 
be  used  with  the  opening  at  one  side  representing  the  gateway. 
Enter  from  opposite  sides,  Lancelot  and  Lavaine. 


5G  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Lancelot. 

This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?     We  must  haste. 
Sir  Lavaine. 

Within  the  hall.     I'll  fetch  it  with  all  speed. 

Exit  Lavaine,  right,  and  enter  Elaine,  left.     Lancelot,  as 

he  turns  from  Lavaine,  sees  Elaine  and  greets  her  silently, 

as  if  awed  by  her  presence. 
Elaine.     [Hesitatingly] 

Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not — noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest^ will  you  w^ear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney? 
Lancelot.     [Troubled] 

Nay,  sweet  maid, 

Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me,  know. 
Elaine. 

Yea  so, — and  since  'tis  so,  in  wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord. 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you  in  this  jousto 
Lancelot.     [After  a  momenfs  thought] 

Good  counsel,  child. — Then  fetch  it  out  to  me! 

But  stay  a  moment;  tell  me  what  it  is. 
Elaine. 

A  sleeve  it  is,  my  lord,  of  samite  red, 

And  broider'd  all  with  pearls. — I'll  fetch  it  straight! 
Elaine  goes  out. 
Lancelot.     [Alone] 

How  fair  she  looked,  and  shy  in  asking  me 

To  wear  her  favor  in  the  tournament! 

I  did  not  dream  she  was  so  beautiful! 

Alas — I  would  not  do  her  wrong  in  wearing  it. 

She  surely  knew  —  I  said  'twas  not  my  wont! 


FourtiiYear]  Laucelot  and  Elaine  51 

Elaine  returns,  and  gives  Lancelot  the  sleeve,  which  he 

hinds  on  his  helmet. 
Lancelot.     [Smiling] 

How  strange  it  is  to  see  my  helm  adorned 

By  maiden's  favor,  child! — I  never  yet 

Have  done  so  much  for  any  maid  who  lives! 

[Enter  Lavaine  ivith  Sir  Torre's  shield.     Lancelot  rests 

his  shield  against  the  wall  at  the  gateway;  then  returns  to 

Elaine,  icho  stands  near  the  center  of  the  stage] 

Do  me  this  grace,  fair  maid,  to  guard  my  shield 

Until  I  come  again  to  Astolat. 
Elaine. 

A  second  grace  today.     I  am  your  squire. 
Sir  Lavaine.     [Laughing] 

O  Lily  maid,  lest  ye  be  called  that  name 

In  truth,  bring  back  the  roses  to  those  cheeks! 
[Playfully  pinches  her  cheeks] 

Then  get  ye  hence  to  bed.     Farewell,  sweet  maid! 
Lancelot. 

Guard  well  my  shield,  fair  maid  of  Astolat! 

The  two  knights  move  slowly  toward  the  gateway  leaving 

farewell,  and  Elaine  follows  them.     As  the  curtain  goes  down 

she  stands  leaning  on  the  shield,  watching  the  departing 

knights. 


58  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 


HENRY  ESMOND 

William   Makepeace   Thackeray 
PREFATORY   NOTE 

Two  incidents  are  selected  from  Henry  Esmond  for  dramatic  treat- 
ment, Esmond's  Return  from  the  Wars,  and  The  Making  of  Addison's 
Poem,  The  Campaign. 

The  action  of  chaps,  vii  and  viii.  Book  II,  covering  the  first 
selection,  occupies  several  days,  but  it  is  here  condensed  into  one 
evening  for  the  sake  of  simple  presentation.  Some  of  the  long 
speeches  are  cut  and  occasional  remarks  are  introduced  to  help  along 
the  dialogue.     Otherwise  the  text  is  unchanged. 

The  second  dramatization  is  based  on  chap,  xi.  Book  II.  It  will 
interest  pupils  who  are  studying  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers, 
even  though  they  have  not  read  Henry  Esmond.  The  main  change 
necessary  for  this  dramatic  adaptation  is  a  cutting  of  the  long  speeches 
and  a  readjustment  of  the  dialogue.  The  events  of  the  chapter  occur 
on  two  different  days.  Here,  in  the  adaptation,  the  action  is  made 
continuous  for  the  sake  of  simplicity.  Certain  selections  from  Addison's 
poem.  The  Campaign,  are  introduced. 


Esmond's  Return  From  the  Wars 

Characters : 

Lady  Castleioood.  My  Lord  Castlewood. 

Mistress  Beatrix.  Mrs.  Pincot,  the  Housekeeper. 

Henry  Esmond. 

The  scene  shoivs  the  dining  hall,  at  JJ'alcote.  Mrs. 
Pincot  is  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  an  elaborately 
spread  supper  table.  As  the  curtain  rises,  My  Lord  Castle- 
wood enters. 

My  Lord  Castlewood.  [Lin patiently]  They  should  be  here 
now.     Hark !  there  they  come. 


Fourth  Year]  Ilcury  Esmond  59 

Enter  Esmond,  and  Lady  Castlewood  leaning  on  his  arm. 
Lady  Castlewood.     [Removing  her  wraps  and  iurning  to 

Esmond]     Welcome  home,  Harry ! 
My  Lord.     [Stepping   up   to   Esmond]     Welcome,   Harry. 

Here  we  are,   all  come  to  say  so.     Here's  old  Pincot. 

Hasn't  she  grown  handsome? 
Mrs.  Pincot.     [Coming  forward  and  making   a   curtsy   to 

Esmond]     I  say  welcome,  too.  Captain.     [To  Lord  Castle- 
wood]    Have  done  now ! 
Enter  Beatrix. 
My  Lord.     And  here  comes  Mistress  Trix,   with  a  new 

riband.     I  knew  she  would  put  on  one  as  soon  as  she 

heard  a  captain  was  coming  to  supper. 
Beatrix.     [Advancing  toivard  Esmond,  smiling  upon  him, 

and  holding  forward  her  head  as  if  she  would  have  him  kiss 

her.     But  as  he  is  about  to  do  so  she  draws  back]     Stop,  I 

am  grown  too  big!      Welcome,  Cousin  Harry.      [Making 

him  a  curtsy,  siveeping  doum  to  the  ground,  with  a  most 

gracious   bend,   looking   up   at    the    same    time    tcith    the 

sweetest  smile] 
My  Lord.     She  hath  put  on  her  scarlet  stockings  and  white 

shoes.     [To  Beatrix]     Oh,  my  fine  mistress!  is  this  the 

way  you  set  your  cap  at  the  Captain? 

Esmond  gazes  entranced  at  Beatrix  and  seems  to  have 

forgotten  all  else  in  his  rapt  admiration. 
Lady  Castlewood.     [Going  up    to    Esmond  and  speaking 

in  a  low,  sweet  voice.]     N'est-ce-pas?     [The  only  answer 

she  gets  is  a  start  from  Esmond] 
My  Lord.     Right  foot  forward,  toe  turned  out,  so:  now 

drop    the    curtsy    again,    and  show   the   red  stockings, 

Trix.     They've    silver    clocks,    ILirry.     The    Dowager 

sent  'em. 
Beatrix.     [Placing     her     hand     over    her   brothers   mouth] 

Hush,  ycu  stujjid  child!     [She  goes  up  to  her  mother  and 


60  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

kisses  her.     Then  she  goes  up  to  Esmond  and  gives  him 

both  her  hands]      Oh,   Harry,  we're  so,   so  glad  you're 

conic! 
My  Lokd.     There  are  woodcocks  for  supjier:     Iluzzay! — 

It  was  such  a  hungry  sermon. 
Mks.  Pincot.     The  supper  is  served,  my  Lady. 

Esmond  conducts  Lady  Castlewood  to  a  seat;  the  young 

Lord  leads  Beatrix;  Mrs.  Pincot  busies  herself  serving. 
Beatrix.     Mamma,   why  don't  you  eat?     You  hav'e  no 

appetite  and  look  tired  and  pale. 
Lady  Castlewood.     I   am   an   old  woman.     [Sviiling]     I 

cannot  hope  to  look  as  young  as  you  do,  my  dear  Beatrix. 
My  Lord.     [Turning  to  his  mother]     She'll  never  look  as 

good  as  you  do  if  she  lives  till  she's  a  hundred. 
Beatrix.     [Turning   round    to  Esmond]     Do  I  look  very 

wicked,  cousin? 
Esmond.     I'm  like    your    looking-glass,  and    that   can't 

flatter  you. 
Lady  Castlewood.     [Archly]     He    means    that    you  are 

q,lways  looking  at  him,  my  dear. 
Beatrix.     Oh,  mamma!     [Shaking  her  finger  at  her  mother] 
Lady    Castlewood.     [Looking  fondly    at    Esmond]     And 

Harry  is  very  good  to  look  at. 
Esmond.     If  'tis  good  to  see  a  happy  face,  you  see  that. 
Lady  Castlewood.     [Sighing]     xVmen.     [Becoming  rather 

melancholy  again] 
My'  Lord.     Why,  Harry,  how  fine  we  look  in  our  scarlet  and 

silver,  and  our  black  periwig!     Mother,  I  am  tired  of 

my  own  hair.     When  shall  I  have  a  peruke?     Where 

did  you  get  your  steenkirk,  Harry? 
Esmond.     It's  some  of  my  Lady   Dowager's  lace.     She 

gave  me  this  and  a  number  of  other  fine  things. 
My  Lord.     My  Lady  Dowager  isn't  such  a  bad  woman. 
Beatrix.     She's  not  so — so  red  as  she's  painted. 


Fourth  Year]  TlcnriJ    EsmOlld  61 

My  Lord.     I'll  tell  her  you  said  so;  begad,  Trix,  I  will! 

Beatrix.  She'll  know  that  you  hadn't  the  wit  to  say  it, 
my  Lord. 

My  Lord.  We  won't  (luarrcl  the  first  day  Harry's  here, 
will  we,  mother?  We'll  see  if  we  can  get  on  to  the  New 
Year  without  a  fight.  Have  some  of  this  Christmas 
pie.  And  here  comes  the  tankard;  no,  it's  Pincot  with 
the  tea. 

Beatrix.  Will  the  Captain  choose  a  dish?  [Indicating 
the  tea] 

My  Lord.  I  say,  Harry,  I'll  show  thee  my  horses  tomor- 
row; and  we'll  go  a  bird-netting,  and  on  Monday 
there's  a  cock-match  at  Winchester — do  you  love  cock- 
fighting? 

Lady  Castlewood.  [Without  letting  Esmond  reply]  And 
what  W'ill  you  do,  Beatrix,  to  amuse  our  kinsman? 

Beatrix.  I'll  listen  to  him.  I  am  sure  he  has  a  hundred 
things  to  tell  us.  And  I  'in  jealous  already  of  the  Spanish 
ladies.  Was  that  a  beautiful  nun  at  Cadiz  that  you 
rescued  from  the  soldiers?     My  maid,  INIrs.  Betty,  told 

-  me  of  it  this  morning  as  she  combed  my  hair.  She  had 
it  from  your  man.  And  he  says  you  must  be  in  love,  for 
you  sat  on  deck  all  night,  and  scribbled  verses  all  day  in 
your  table-book. 

My  Lord.  [Filling  a  bumper  and  saluting  his  sister]  To 
the  Marchioness! 

Esmond.     Marchioness! 

Beatrix.     [With  a  toss  of  the  head]     Nonsense,  my  Lord. 

My  Lord.  The  Marchioness  of  Blandford.  Don't  you 
know?  [Turning  to  Esmond]  Hath  not  the  Dowager 
told  you?  Blandford  has  a  lock  of  her  hair;  the  Duchess 
found  him  on  his  knees  to  iSIistress  Trix,  and  boxed  his 
ears,  and  said  Dr.  Hare  should  whij)  him. 

Beatrix.  •  I  wish  Mr.  Tusher  would  whip  you  too. 


62  Dramathatinn  rrourthYear 

Lady  Castlewood.  I  hope  you  will  tell  none  of  these  silly 
stories  elsewhere  than  at  home,  Francis. 

My  Lord.  'Tis  true,  on  my  word.  Look  at  Harry  scowl- 
ing, mother,  and  see  how  Beatrix  blushes  as  red  as  the 
silver-clocked  stockings. 

Beatkix.  [Rising  up  with  the  air  of  a  queen,  and  tossing  her 
rustling,  floicing  draperies  about  her,  as  she  leaves  the 
room]  I  think  we  had  best  leave  the  gentlemen  to  their 
wine  and  their  talk. 

Lady  Castlewood.  [Rising  also,  and  stooping  down,  she 
pats  her  son  on  the  shoulder]  Do  not  tell  those  silly 
stories,  child;  do  not  drink  much  wine,  sir;  Harry  never 
loved  to  drink  wine. 

She  looks  back  at  Esmond  as  she  follows  Beatrix  out  of  the 
room. — The  two  men  rise  and  take  seats  at  the  small  table  atone 
side  of  the  stage,  on  which  area  decanter  of  wine,  and  glasses. 

My  Lord.  Egad!  it's  true.  [He  pours  wine  from  the 
decanter,  offers  Harry  a  glass,  and  sips  from  his  own] 
What  think  you  of  this  Lisbon — real  Collares?  'Tis 
,  better  than  your  heady  port;  we  got  it  out  of  one  of  the 
Spanish  ships  that  came  from  Vigo  last  year;  my  mother 
bought  it  at  Southampton,  as  the  ship  was  lying  there — 
the  Rose,  Captain  Hawkins. 

Esmond.     Why,  I  came  home  in  that  ship! 

My  Lord.  And  it  brought  home  a  good  fellow  and  good 
wine.     Let's  have  another  glass. 

Esmond.     No,  no,  no  more  for  either  of  us. 

My  Lord.  Well,  and  now  let  me  talk — let  me  tell  you 
news  of  the  family.  It's  now  1703 — I  shall  come  of 
age  in  1709.  I  shall  go  back  to  Castlewood;  I  shall 
build  up  the  house.  My  property  will  be  pretty  well 
restored  by  then.  I  shall  marry  early — Trix  will  be  a 
duchess  by  that  time,  most  likely :  for  a  cannon-ball  may 
knock  over  his  Grace  any  day,  you  know. 


Fourth  Year]  Hewy  Esiiioncl  63 

Esmond.     Beatrix  a  duchess !     How? 

My  Lord.  Hush,  my  dear!  Blandford  will  marrj'  her — or — 
[putting  hi.s  hand  on  Ids  sword]  you  understand  the  rest. 
Blandford  knows  which  of  us  two  is  the  best  weapon.  I 
have  tried  him,  Harry;  and  begad  he  knows  I  am  a  man 
not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Esmond.  [Concealing  his  laughter]  But  you  do  not  mean 
that  you  can  force  my  Lord  Blandford,  the  son  of  the 
first  man  of  this  kingdom,  to  marry  your  sister  at 
sword's  point? 

My  Lord.  I  mean  to  saj^  that  we  are  cousins  by  the 
mother's  side,  though  that's  nothing  to  boast  of.  I 
mean  to  say  that  an  Esmond  is  as  good  as  a  Churchill; 
and  hark  you,  Harry — now  swear  you  will  never  mention 
this.     Give  me  your  honor  as  a  gentleman. 

Esmond.     [.1  little  impatiently]     Well,  well? 

My  Lord.  Well,  then,  when,  after  my  late  Viscount's 
misfortune,  my  mother  went  up  with  us  to  London  —  we 
went  to  stay  with  our  cousin,  my  Lady  Marlborough, 
with  whom  we  had  quarrelled  for  ever  so  long.  But 
when  misfortune  came,  she  stood  by  her  blood. 
Well,  sir,  we  lived  at  my  Lord  Marlborough's  house, 
who  was  only  a  little  there,  being  away  with  the  army 
in  Holland.  And  then — I  say,  Harry,  you  won't  tell, 
now? 

Esmond.  I  promise  on  my  word  as  a  gentleman,  Frank. 
What  happened? 

My  Lord.  Well,  there  used  to  be  all  sorts  oi  fun,  you  know: 
my  Lady  Marlborough  was  A'cry  fond  of  us,  and  she  said 
I  was  to  be  her  page;  and  she  got  Trix  to  be  a  maid  of 
honor;  and  Blandford  f(;ll  tremendous  in  love  willi 
Trix,  and  she  liked  him;  and  one  day,  he  —  he  kissed  lur 
behind  a  door  —  he  did  though — and  the  Duchess 
caught  him  and  she  l)aiiged  siieh  a  box  of  llu>  ear  both 


64  .  Dramatization  rrourthYear 

at  Trix  and  Blandford — you  should  have  seen  it!  And 
then  she  said  that  we  must  leave  directly,  and  abused 
my  mamma. 

Esmond.     How  could  she?     How  shocking! 

My  Lord.  She  did,  and  so  we  came  down  to  Walcote; 
Blandford  being  locked  up,  and  not  allowed  to 
see  Trix.  But  /  got  at  him.  I  climbed  along  the 
gutter,  and  in  through  the  window,  where  he  was 
crying. 

Esmond.     And  what  then? 

My  Lord.  "Marquis,"  says  I,  when  he  had  opened  it  and 
helped  me  in, — "you  know  I  wear  a  sword,"  for  I  had 
brought  it..  "O,  Viscount,"  says  he,  "O,  my  dearest 
Frank!"  and  he  threw  himself  into  my  arms  and  burst 
out  a-crying.  "I  do  love  Mistress  Beatrix  so,  that  I 
shall  die  if  I  don't  have  her!"  "My  dear  Blandford," 
says  I,  "you  are  young  to  think  of  marrying;"  for  he 
was  but  fifteen,  and  a  young  fellow  of  that  age  can 
scarce  do  so,  you  know. 

Esmond.     Hardly.     How  absurd!     But  go  on. 

My  Lord.  "I'll  wait  twenty  years,  if  she'll  have  me," 
says  he.  "I'll  never  marry — no,  never,  never,  never, 
marry  anybody  but  her.  If  Beatrix  will  wait  for  me,  her 
Blandford  swears  he  will  be  faithful,"  and  he  wrote  a 
paper.  It  wasn't  spelt  right,  for  he  wrote,  "I'm  ready 
to  si7ie  with  my  blode,"  and  vowed  to  be  faithful.  And  so 
I  gave  him  a  locket  of  her  hair. 

Esmond.     A  locket  of  her  hair? 

My  Lord.  Yes,  Trix  gave  me  one  after  the  fight  with  the 
Duchess  that  very  day.  I  am  sure  I  didn't  want  it 
and  so  I  gave  it  to  him,  and  we  kissed  at  parting  and 
said,  "Good-bye,  brother."  And  he  went  to  King's 
College  in  Cambridge,  and  /  'm  going  to  Cambridge  soon ; 


Fourth  Year]  Henvy  Esvioud  Go 

and  if  he  doesn't  stand  to  his  promise — he  knows  I 
wear  a  sword  Harry. 

Esmond.     A  very  pretty  story,  forsooth. 

My  Lord.  But  I  say,  [laughing]  I  don't  think  Trix  will 
break  her  heart  about  him.  La  bless  you!  whenever 
she  sees  a  man,  she  makes  eyes  at  him;  and  young  Sir 
Wilmot  Crawley  of  Queen's  Crawley,  and  Anthony 
Henley  of  Alresford,  were  at  swords  drawn  about  her, 
at  the  Winchester  Assembly,  a  month  ago.  [Rising] 
But  I  must  be  off  now.  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment.    I  '11  tell  mamma  to  come  in  to  you. 

Esmond.  Very  well.  But  I  must  say  Good-bye  to  j-ou 
now,  for  this  trip,  Frank.  I  leave  in  the  morning  before 
you  are  up. 

My  Lord.  Oh,  must  you  ILirry?  Too  bad,  too  bad.  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  stay  three  daj's.  But  you  '11 
be  down  soon  again.  Good-bye  then,  and  good  luck  to 
you  in  the  wars. 

He  goes  out. 

Esmond.  [Soliloquizing]  So  the  bright  eyes  have  been 
already  shining  on  another,  and  the  pretty  lips,  or  the 
cheeks  at  anj^  rate,  have  begun  the  work  which  they 
were  made  for.  Here's  a  girl  not  sixteen,  and  one  young 
gentleman  is  already  whimpering  over  a  lock  of  her  hair, 
and  two  country  scpiires  are  ready  to  cut  each  other's 
throats  that  they  may  have  the  honor  of  a  dance  with 
her.  What  a  fool  am  I  to  be  dallying  about  this  passion 
and  singeing  my  wings  in  this  foolish  flame!  Wings! — 
Why  not  say  crutches?  There  is  but  eight  years  differ- 
ence between  us,  to  be  sure;  but  in  life  I  am  thirty  years 
older.  How  could  I  ever  li()i)c  to  please  such  a  sweet 
creature  as  that,  with  my  rough  ways  and  glum  face? 
Say  that  I  have  merit  ever  so  much,  and  won  myself  a 


66  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

name,  could  she  ever  listen  to  me?     She  must  be  my 
Lady  Marchioness. 

Filter  Lady  Castlewood. 

Lady  Castlewood.  [Going  up  to  him  and  talcing  his  hand] 
Why  are  you  going  so  soon?  Frank  just  told  me  you 
leave  tomorrow  morning. 

Esmond.     It  is  best  that  it  should  be  so,  dearest  lady. 

Lady  Castlewood.  I  knew  you  would  go  when  I  left  the 
table.  What  has  happened?  Why  can't  you  remain 
longer  with  us?     What  has  Frank  told  you? 

Esmond.  My  new  General  is  to  dine  at  Chelsey  tomorrow 
— General  Lumley,  madam — who  has  appointed  me  his 
aide-de-camp,  and  on  whom  I  must  have  the  honor  of 
waiting. 

Lady  Castlewood.     Well,  what  was  it  Frank  told  you? 

Esmond.  He  told  me  little  I  did  not  know.  But  I  have 
thought  of  that  little  and  here's  the  result.  I  must 
go  immediately.  If  I  thought  for  an  hour  of  what  has 
perhaps  crossed  your  mind  too^ — - 

Lady  Castlewood.  Yes,  I  did,  Harry.  I  thought  of  it; 
and  think  of  it.  I  would  sooner  call  you  my  son  than 
the  greatest  prince  in  Europe — yes,  than  the  greatest 
prince.  For  who  is  there  so  good  and  so  brave,  and  who 
would  love  her  as  you  would?  But  there  are  reasons  a 
mother  can't  tell — 

Esmond.  [Interrupting]  I  know  them.  I  know  there's 
Sir  Wilmot  Crawley  of  Queen's  Crawley,  and  Mr.  An- 
thony Henley  of  the  Grange,  and  INIy  Lord  Marquis  of 
Blandford,  that  seems  to  be  the  favored  suitor.  You 
shall  ask  me  to  wear  my  Lady  Marchioness's  favors 
and  to  dance  at  her  Ladj^ship's  wedding. 

Lady  Castlewood.  O!  Harry,  Harry!  it  is  none  of  these 
follies  that  frighten  me.  The  Marquis  is  but  a  child,  and 
his  outbreak  about  Beatrix  was  a  mere  boyish  folly. 


Fourth  Year]  Ilcunj    EsmOUcl  67 

His  parents  would  rather  see  him  buried  than  married 
to  one  below  him  in  rank.  And  do  you  tliink  that  I 
would  stoop  to  sue  for  a  husband  for  Francis  Esmond's 
daughter?  I  would  disdain  such  a  meanness;  Beatrix- 
would  scorn  it.  Ah!  Henry,  'tis  not  with  you  the  fault 
lies,  'tis  with  her.  I  know  j-ou  botli,  and  love  you;  need 
I  be  ashamed  of  that  love  now.*^  No,  never,  never,  and 
'tis  not  you,  dear  Harry,  that  is  unworth3^  'Tis  for  my 
poor  Beatrix  I  tremble  —  whose  headstrong  will  frigiitens 
me;  whose  jealous  temper,  and  whose  vanity  no  words  or 
prayers  of  mine  can  cure.  O!  Henry,  she  will  make  no 
man  happy  who  loves  her.  Go  away,  my  son:  leave 
her,  love  us  always,  and  think  kindly  of  us:  and  for  me, 
my  dear,  you  know  that  these  walls  contain  all  that  I 
love  in  the  world. 
Esmond.  I  do  j'our  bidding,  dearest  lady,  and  go.  But 
some  day  I  shall  return  with  a  name  perhaps,  and 
then — - 

Curtain 


The  Making  of  Addison's  Poem,  "The  Campaign." 


Characters: 
Mr.  Joseph  Addison.  Henry  Esmond. 

Captain  Richard  Steele.       Mr.  Boyle. 

The  Maid. 

The  scene  represents  Addison  s  lodgings  in  the  Hay- 
market.  The  room  is  meagerly  furnished.  At  one  side 
is  a  table,  laid  with  a  frugal  meal — a  slice  of  meat  on  a  small 
platter,  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  A  large  decanter  of  wine  stands 
in  the  center  of  the  table.     Several  small  wooden  chairs  are 


68  Dvamaiizaiion 


[Fourth  Year 


near  the  table.  At  the  other  side  is  an  old-fashioned  writing 
desk,  open,  on  ivhich  are  maps  and  papers.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  Addison  is  discovered  seated  at  his  desk,  studijimj  the 
maps.  He  is  dressed  after  the  fashion  of  the  time,  in  a  snuff - 
colored  suit;  and  wears  a  sword  and  a  plain  tie  wig.  The 
Maid  enters. 

The  Maid.  [Timidly]  Please,  Sir,  two  fine  gentlemen  are 
below,  asking  to  see  you. 

Addison.  Tell  them  I  am  very  busy  and  will  not  be  dis- 
turbed. 

The  Maid.  But,  Sir,  I  told  them  that,  and  one, — the  fine 
one  in  scarlet  and  gold  lace, — he  said,  Sir,  you  icould 
see  him,  and  made  me  come  up. 

Addison.  Oh,  that  must  be  Dick!  Yes,  j^es,  show  him 
up. — At  last  he  has  come  to  hear  these  verses. 

Exit  Maid.  She  immediately  returns  ushering  in 
Captain  Steele,  arrayed  in  a  gorgeous  costume  of  scarlet 
and  lace,  and  Henry  Esmond,  icho  is  more  modestly 
dressed.     Addison  rises. 

Steele.  [Rushing  up  to  Addison  and  kissing  him]  ]My 
dearest  Joe,  where  hast  thou  hidden  thyself  this  age? 
[Still  holding  his  friend's  hands]  I  have  been  languishing 
for  thee  this  fortnight. 

Addison.  [Good-humoredly]  A  fortnight  is  not  an  age, 
Dick.  And  I  have  been  hiding  myself — where  do  you 
think.? 

Steele.  [With  great  alarm]  What!  not  across  the  water, 
my  dear  Joe?     thou  knowest  I  have  always — 

Addison.  [Smiling]  No,  we  are  not  come  to  such  straits 
as  that,  Dick.  I  have  been  hiding,  sir,  right  here  in  my 
own  lodgings,  where  you  would  have  found  me  had  you 
honored  me  with  a  visit.  But  the  gentleman — [Indi- 
cating Esmond] 


Fourth  Tear]  Ilcfjry  Esuiond  69 

Steele.  Harry  Esmond,  whom  I  have  brought  to  meet 
my  dearest  Joe,  my  guardian  angel.  Come  hither,  Harry 
Esmond. 

Esmond.  [Approaching  and  boiving]  Indeed,  I  am  highly 
honored.  I  have  long  ago  learnt  to  admire  Mr.  Addison. 
[Addressing  j:lddiso7i]  We  loved  good  poetry  at  Cam- 
bridge as  well  as  at  Oxford;  and  I  have  some  of  yours  by 
heart,  though  I  have  put  on  a  red  coat — 0  qui  canoro 
hlandiiis  Orpheo  vocale  ducis  carmen;  shall  I  go  on,  sir? 

Steele.  This  is  Captain  Esmond,  who  was  at  Blenheim, 
my  dear  Joe. 

Esmond.     Lieutenant  Esmond,  at  Mr.  Addison's  service. 

Addison.  [Smiling]  I  have  heard  of  you  and  am  most 
happy  to  make  your  acquaintance.  [With  courtly  grace] 
Be  seated,  gentlemen.  I  was  about  to  partake  of  my 
frugal  dinner.  Do  me  the  honor  to  share  it  with  me. 
And  I  can  promise  you  [taking  up  the  decanter]  my  wine 
is  better  than  my  meat;  my  Lord  Halifax  sent  me  the 
burgundy. 

They  all  seat  themselves  and  begin  to  eat.     Addison  fills 
the  glasses. 

Steele.     And  here's  to  the  success  of  the  poem,  dearest  Joe. 
They  all  drink. 

Addison.  You  see  [pointing  to  his  ivriting  table]  that  I,  too, 
am  busy  about  your  affairs,  Captain.  I  am  engaged  as 
a  poetical  gazetteer,  to  say  truth,  and  am  writing  a  poem 
on  the  campaign.     Come,  show  me  how  it  was  fought. 

Esmond.  Right  willingly,  sir.  Here  ran  the  river,  [indi- 
cating  the  course  ivith  the  stem  of  his  pipe,  which  he  takes 
from  his  pocket]  and  here  on  the  left  was  the  wing  in 
which  I  fought.  And  so  we  advanced.  [Tapping  on  the 
table  to  show  the  advance]  Do  you  know  what  a  scene  it 
was?  [Becoming  enthusiastic]  What  a  triumph  you  are 
celebrating!      What  scenes  of   shame   and   horror    were 


70  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

enacted,  over  which  the  commander's  genius  presided, 
as  cahn  as  though  he  didn't  belong  to  our  sphere! 
Steele.     Does  he  know?     Just  listen  to  this!      [Going  to 
the  deslc  and  taJcing  up  a  page  of  manuscript] 

While  crowds  of  princes  your  deserts  proclaim, 
Proud  in  their  numlicr  to  enroll  your  name; 
While  emperors  to  you  commit  their  cause, 
And  ANNA'S  praises  crown  the  vast  applause; 
Accept,  great  leader,  what  the  muse  recites, 
That  in  ambitious  verse  attempts  your  fights, 
Fired  and  transported  with  a  theme  so  new. 
Ten  thousand  wonders  opening  to  my  view 
Shine  forth  at  once;  sieges  and  storms  appear, 
And  wars  and  conquests  fill  th'  important  year. 
Rivers  of  blood  I  see,  and  hills  of  slain, 
An  Iliad  rising  out  of  one  campaign. 

Bravo,  Bravo!  Is  it  not  great?  Another  glass  to 
The  Poem !     [ Theij  all  drink.] 

And  hark  to  this.     [Turning  a  page] 

Our  godlike  leader,  ere  the  stream  he  passed, 
The  mighty  scheme  of  all  his  labors  cast 
Forming  the  wondrous  year  within  his  thought; 
His  bosom  glowed  with  battles  yet  unf ought. 
The  long,  laborious  march  he  first  surveys. 
And  joins  the  distant  Danube  to  the  Maese, 
Between  whose  floods  such  pathless  forests  grow, 
Such  mountains  rise,  so  many  rivers  flow; 
The  toil  looks  lovelj'  in  the  hero's  eyes. 
And  danger  serves  but  to  enhance  the  prize. — 

But  I  must  go  now,  gentlemen,  to  meet  Budgell  at  the 
George  before  the  play.  Pray  let  me  not  disturb  you.  Stay, 
Harry,  and  talk  Blenheim  with  dearest  Joe.  He  will  profit 
by  your  wit,  I  doubt  me  not.     And  now  adieu  to  both! 

He  embraces  and  kisses  them  both  and  goes  off.  Esmond 
and  Addison  take  pipes  and  settle  themselves  comfortably  to 
converse. 


Fourth  Year]  Henrij  Esinoiid  71 

Esmond.  I  admire  the  licence  of  your  poets.  I  admire 
your  art;  the  murder  of  the  campaign  is  done  to  military 
music,  like  a  battle  at  the  opera.  You  hew  out  of  your 
polished  verses  a  stately  image  of  smiling  victory.  I  tell 
you  'tis  an  uncouth,  distorted,  savage  idol;  hideous, 
bloody,  and  barbarous.  You  great  poets  should  show 
war  as  it  is, — ugly  and  horrible,  not  beautiful  and  serene. 

Addison.  [Quietly]  What  would  you  have?  In  our  pol- 
ished days,  and  according  to  the  rules  of  art,  'tis  impos- 
sible that  the  Muse  should  depict  tortures  or  begrime 
her  hands  with  the  horrors  of  war.  Were  I  to  sing  as 
you  would  have  me,  the  town  would  tear  the  poet  in 
pieces,  and  burn  his  book  by  the  hands  of  the  common 
hangman.  We  must  paint  our  great  Duke,  not  as  a  man, 
which  no  doubt  he  is,  with  weaknesses  like  the  rest  of 
us,  but  as  a  hero. 

Esmond.  There  were  as  brav^e  men  on  that  field  as  the 
leader,  whom  neither  knights  nor  senators  applauded,  nor 
voices  plebeian  or  patrician  favored,  and  who  lie  there  for- 
gotten, under  the  clods.    What  poet  is  there  to  sing  them? 

Addison.  To  sing  the  gallant  souls  of  heroes  sent  to  Hades! 
Would  you  celebrate  them  all?  One  of  the  greatest  of 
a  great  man's  equalities  is  success;  of  all  his  gifts  I  admire 
that  one  in  the  great  Marlborough.  To  be  brave?  every 
man  is  brave.  But  in  being  victorious,  as  he  is,  I  fancy 
there  is  something  divine.  In  presence  of  the  occasion, 
the  great  soul  of  the  leader  shines  out,  and  the  god  is 
confessed.  Death  itself  respects  him,  and  passes  by  him 
to  lay  others  low.  And  yet  [smiling]  'tis  a  pity  I  could 
not  find  a  rhyme  for  Webb,  your  brave  Colonel  —  else 
had  he,  too,  found  a  place  in  this  poem.  But  as  for  you 
[still  smiling],  you  are  but  a  lieutenant,  and  the  Muse 
can't  occupy  herself  with  any  gentleman  under  the  rank 
of  a  field  officer. 


72  Dramatization  [Fourth  Yeai 

Enter  the  Maid,  showing  in  Mr.  Boyle. 

The  Maid.     A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir. 

Addison.  [Risinxj  and  greeting  his  guest]  My  dear  sir, 
welcome  to  my  humble  lodgings.  Honored  am  I  indeed, 
to  see  you  again  at  my  chambers.  [Turning  to  Esmond] 
Captain  Esmond,  I  have  the  honor  to  present  Mr.  Boyle. 

Mr.  Boyle.  [To  Esmond]  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,  sir, 
[Looking  toward  the  desk]  And  how  goes  on  the  magnum 
opus,  Mr.  Addison? 

Addison.  We  were  but  now  over  it.  Here  is  the  plan  on 
the  table;  here  ran  the  little  river  Nebel;  here  are.Tal- 
lard's  quarters,  at  the  bowl  of  this  pipe  [indicating 
with  his  pipe]  at  the  attack  of  which  Captain  Esmond 
was  present;  and  Mr.  Esmond  was  but  now  depicting 
aliquo  proelia  mixta  mero,  when  you  came  in. 

Mr.  Boyle.  What  more  have  you  written  since  I  was  last 
here?     I  am  all  impatience  to  learn.     Pray  read. 

Addison  takes  up  a  paper  and  reads,  timidly,  at  first, 
then,  gradually  becoming  inspired,  with  great  animation. 
You  have  not  yet  heard  these  lines: 

But  O,  my  muse,  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  joined! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  sound, 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies. 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise! 
'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul  was  proved, 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved. 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair. 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war; 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed. 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage, 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 
So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 


Fourth  Year]  Heury  EsTuond  73 

Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past, 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast; 
And,  pleased  th'  Almighty's  orders  to  perform. 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 

Mr.  Boyle.  [Springing  up  unth  great  delight]  Not  a  word 
more,  my  dear  sir.  Trust  me  with  the  papers  —  I'll 
defend  them  with  my  life.  Let  me  read  them  over  to  my 
Lord  Treasurer,  whom  I  am  ajipointed  to  see  in  half-an- 
hour.  I  venture  to  promise,  the  verses  shall  lose  nothing 
by  my  reading,  and  then,  sir,  we  shall  see  whether  Lord 
Halifax  has  a  right  to  complain  that  his  friend's  pension 
is  no  longer  paid. 

He  seizes  the  manuscript,  places  it  in  his  breast;  ivith 
his  hand  over  his  heart,  executes  a  most  gracious  icave  of 
the  hat  with  the  disengaged  hand,  smiles  and  bows  himself 
out  of  the  room. 

Addison.  Does  not  the  chamber  look  quite  dark,  after  the 
glorious  appearance  and  disappearance  of  that  gracious 
messenger?  Why,  he  illuminated  the  whole  room. 
Your  scarlet,  Mr.  Esmond,  will  bear  any  light;  but  this 
threadbare  old  coat  of  mine,  how  very  worn  it  looked 
under  the  glare  of  that  splendor!  [Thoughtfnlhj]  I 
wonder  whether  they  will  do  anything  for  me. 

Esmond.  Of  course  they  will. — Let  me  prophesy.  Withm 
a  month  from  this  very  day,  the  whole  town  will  be  in  an 
uproar  of  admiration  of  your  poem.  The  Campaign. 
Dick  Steele  will  be  spouting  it  at  every  coffee-house  in 
Whitehall  and  Covent  Garden.  The  wits  on  the  other 
side  of  Temple  Bar  will  be  saluting  you  as  the  greatest 
poet  the  world  has  seen  for  ages;  the  peopU'  will  be 
huzzahing  for  Marll)orough  and  for  .\ddison,  and,  more 
than  this,  you  will  get  some  high  office  from  the  party 
in  power,  which  will  be  only  the  beginning  of  the  Iionors 


74  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

and  dignities  which  from  henceforth  are  to  be  showered 
upon  you  to  the  end  of  your  life! 
Addison.  [Laughing]  Well,  Captain  Esmond,  I  shall  try 
to  believe  you.  Whichever  way  it  turns,  thank  you  very 
much  for  your  kind  words.  When  my  good  fortune 
comes  you  shall  share  with  me  another  bottle.  And  now 
let  us  go  abroad  and  take  a  turn  on  the  Mall,  or  look  in  at 
the  theatre  and  see  Dick's  comedy.  'Tis  not  a  master- 
piece of  wit;  but  Dick  is  a  good  fellow,  though  he  doth 
not  set  the  Thames  on  fire. 

They  take  their  hats  and  go  off  as  the  curtain  falls. 


Fourth  Year!  CoMUS  15 


COM  US 

John  Milton 

PREFATORY    NOTE 

Comus,  abridged  as  follows,  can  be  most  effectively  staged  for  high 
school  production.  It  is  to  be  given  in  a  Prologue  and  five  scenes, 
ending  with  an  Epilogue.  If  possible  it  should  be  an  out-o' «loor 
performance. 

The  condensation  requires  occasional  changes  in  the  lines,  combi- 
nation of  lines  now  and  then,  and  more  rarely  still,  insertion  of  new 
lines.  The  stage  setting  is,  of  course,  greatly  simplified.  The  animal 
heads,  necessary  for  the  Crew  of  Comus,  will  offer  slight  difficulty  to  the 
high  school  boy  or  girl,  whose  ingenuity  can  be  counted  on  in  this,  as  in 
most  matters  of  costuming.  As  much  incidental  music  as  possible 
should  be  introduced,  preferably  that  of  the  original  score  by  Henry 
Lawcs,  though  there  arc  many  substitutes  which  can  be  used. 


The  Persons: 
The  Attendant  Spirit,  The  Lady. 

afterwards  in  the  habit  of  First  Brother. 

Thyrsis.  Second  Brother. 

Comus,  with  his  Crew.  Sabrina,  the  Nymph. 

The  stage  presents  a  dense  forest  ivith  an  opening  at  the 
front.  The  Attendant  Spirit,  dressed  in  jilmy,  glittering 
robes,  enters  and  delivers  the  Prologue. 

Prologue 

Spirit. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  court 
My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal  shapes 
Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphcred 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air. 
Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted  seals. 


76  Dramatization  rrourth  Year 

But  to  my  task.     Neptune  quarters  this  Isle, 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 
Unto  his  favorite  blue-haired  deities; 
And  all  this  tract  that  fronts  the  falling  sun 
A  noble  Peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power  » 

Has  in  his  charge,  with  tempered  awe  to  guide 
An  old  and  haughty  nation,  proud  in  arms: 
Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in  princely  lore. 
Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's  state. 
And  new-intrusted  scepter.     But  their  way 
Lies  through  the  perplexed  paths  of  this  drear  wood, 
And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril, 
But  that,  by  quick  command  from  sovran  Jove, 
I  was  dispatched  for  their  defence  and  guard: 
And  listen  why ;  for  I  will  tell  you  now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song. 
From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Once  Bacchus  came  to  Circe's  magic  isle. 
And  stayed  with  her,  bright  daughter  of  the  Sun; 
And  ere  he  parted  thence  a  son  was  born. 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more, 
Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and  Comus  named: 
And  he  betook  him  to  this  ominous  wood 
Where  he  in  shelter  of  black  shades  imbowered. 
Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art; 
Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 
His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass. 
Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  count 'nance. 
The  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is  changed 
Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf  or  bear. 
Or  ounce  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded  goat. 
All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were. 
And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery. 
Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement. 


Fourth  Year]  CoTTlUS  77 

But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  before, 
And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget, 
To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 
Therefore,  when  any  favored  of  higli  Jove 
Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventurous  glade, 
Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star 
I  shoot  from  heaven,  to  give  him  safe  convoy. 
As  now  I  do.     But  first  I  must  put  off 
These  my  sky-robes,  spun  out  of  Iris'  woof. 
And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of  a  swain 
That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs — 
What  noise  is  that?     I  must  be  viewless  now. 
Curtain 

Scene  I 
The  Dance 

The  setting  is  the  same;  the  time  twilight.  The  curtain 
rises  as  Comus  enters,  with  a  charming-rod  in  one  hand,  his 
glass  in  the  other:  ivith  him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed  like 
sundry  sorts  of  wild  beasts,  but  otherwise  like  men  and  women. 
They  come  in  making  a  riotous  and  unndy  noise,  icith  torches 
in  their  hands. 

Comus. 

The  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold 

Now  the  toj)  of  heaven  doth  hold. 

Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed; 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head. 

Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws,  in  slumber  lie. 

By  dimpled  brook  and  fountain-brim, 

The  wood-nymphs,  decked  with  daisies  trim, 


78  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Their  merry  wakes  and  j)a.stime.s  keep: 
What  hath  night  to  do  with  .sleep? 
Now  ere  hght  dawns  in  the  east. 
Let  us  welcome  joy  and  feast, 
Midnight  shout  and  revelry. 
Tipsy  dance  and  jollity. 
IJraid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 
Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 
Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 
In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

[They  all  join  in  a  wild,  hilarious  dance  which  breaks 
off  suddenly] 

Break  off,  break  off !     I  feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds  within  these  brakes  and  trees; 
Our  number  may  affright. 

Curtain 

Scene  II 
The  Meeting  of  the  Lady  and  Comus 

The   scene  is  the   same.     The  Lady  is   discovered   alone, 
apparently  lost  in  the  forest. 

Lady. 

This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 

My  best  guide  now.     Methought  it  was  the  sound 

Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment — 

My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 

Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket-side 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 

As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back, 


fourth  year]  CoVlUS  79 

Is  now  the  constant  labor  of  my  thoiif,'hts. 
I  can  not  hallo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 
I'll  venture,  for  my  new-enlivened  spirits 
Prompt  me,  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off. 
The  Lady  sinyfi  the  Jollou'iiuj  sotuj. 

Song 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  I  hut  lir'st  unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell 

By  slow  Meander's  manjent  green. 

And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 

Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well: 

Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 

That  nicest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

0,  if  thou  have 

Hid  them  in  some  Jloivery  cave. 

Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet  Queen  of  Parley,  Daughter  of  the  Sphere! 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies. 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven  s  harmonics! 

As    she    concludes,   Comus    appears,    disguisal    us    a 

shepherd. 
Comus. — Hail,  foreign  wonder! 

Whom,  certain,  these  rough  shades  did  iie\t'i-  hrci-d. 

Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 

DwelTst  here  with  Pan  or  Sylvan,  by  l)l('sl  simg 

Forl)idding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 

To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 
Lady. 

Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  thai  praise 


80  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

That  is  addressed  to  unattending  ears. 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  severed  company, 
Compelled  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

COMUS. 

What  chance,  good  Lady,  hath  bereft  you  thus? 
Lady. 

Dim  darkness,  and  this  leavy  labyrinth. 

CoMUS. 

Could  that  divide  you  from  near-ushering  guides? 
Lady. 

They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 

CoMUS. 

By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why? 
Lady. 

To  seek  i'  the  valley  some  cool  friendly  spring. 

CoMUS. 

And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded,  Lady? 
Lady. 

They  were  but  twain,  and  purposed  quick  return, 

CoMUS. 

Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented  them. 
Lady. 

How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit! 

CoMUS. 

Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  present  need? 
Lady. 

No  less  than  if  I  should  my  brothers  lose. 

COMUS. 

Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful  bloom? 
Lady. 

Unrazored  yet  their  lips. 


Fourth  Year]  ComUS  S 1 

COMUS 

Two  such  I  saw, 
Plucking  the  clustering  fruit.     If  those  you  seek, 
It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  Heaven 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lady. 

Gentle  \ill;i^cr. 
What  readiest  way  would  bring  nie  to  that  place? 

Co.MUS. 

Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shru])l)y  point. 

Lady. 

To  find  that  out,  good  shepherd,  I  suppo.se, 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star-light. 
Would  overtask  the  best  land-pilot's  art. 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised  feet. 

CoMUS. 

I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell,  of  this  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side. 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood; 
And  if  your  stray  attendance  be  yet  lodged. 
Or  .shroud  within  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallet  rouse.     If  otherwise, 
I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 
Lady. 

Shepherd,  I  lake  thy  word. 
And  trust  thy  honest-offered  courtesy. — 
Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  s(|uaro  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength!     Shepherd,  lead  on. 
Curtain 


82  Dramaihation  [I'ounhYear 

Scene  III 
The  Brothers'  Discovery 

The  setting  is  unchanged.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  ttvo 
Brothers  are  discovered  in  earnest  conversation  about  their 
lost  sister. 

Elder  Brother. 

Uumuffle,  ye  faint  stars;  and  thou,  fair  moon, 
That  wont'st  to  love  the  traveller's  benison, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber  cloud. 
And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns  here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of  shades ! 

Second  Brother. 

And,  oh,  that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost  sister! 
Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her 
From  the  chill  dew,  amongst  rude  burs  and  thistles? 
Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster  now, 
Or  'gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad  elm 
Leans'  her  unpillowed  head,  fraught  with  sad  fears. 
What  if  in  wild  amazement  and  affright. 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat ! 

Elder  Brother. 

I  do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek. 

Or  so  unprincipled  in  virtue's  book. 

And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms  ever. 

As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise — 

Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she  is  not — 

Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm  thoughts. 

And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 

Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would 

By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 

Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk  — 


Fourth  Year]  ComUS  83 

Second  Brother.     [Interruptinxj] 

IJut  listcMi  brollier. 

You  may  as  well  siJivtid  out  the  unsunned  heaps 

Of  miser's  treasure  by  an  outlaw's  «lcn, 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 

Danger  will  wink  on  ()ppt)rtunity. 

And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 

Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 
Elder  JiRoriiiOR. 

My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left 

As  you  iuuigine;  she  has  a  hidden  strength. 

Which  you  remember  not. 
Second  Brother. 

What  hidden  strength. 

Unless  the  strength  of  Heaven,  if  you  mean  lliat? 
Elder  Brother. 

I  mean  that  too,  but  j'et  a  hidden  strength. 

Which,  if  Heaven  ga\'e  il,  may  be  termed  her  own. 

'Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity: 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel. 

And,  like  a  cpiivered  nymph  with  arrows  keen. 

May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbored  heaths, 

Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds; 

Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  chastity, 

No  savage  fierce,  bandite,  or  mountaineer, 

Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  })urity. 
Second  Brother. 

How  charming  is  divine  IMiilosophy ! 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose. 

But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute. 

And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectarcd  sweets. 

Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 
A  faint  call  is  heard. 


84  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

Elder  Brother. 

List!  list!     I  hear 

Some  far-off  hallo  break  the  silent  air. 
Second  Brother. 

Methought  so  too;  what  should  it  be? 
Elder  Brother. 

For  certain, 

Either  some  one,  like  us,  night-foundered  here. 

Or  else  some  neighbor  woodman,  or,  at  worst, 

Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 
Second  Brother. 

Heaven  keep  my  sister!    Again,  again,  and  near! 

Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 
Elder  Brother. 

I'll  hallo. 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well:  if  not, 

Defence  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heaven  be  for  us! 
Enter  the  Attendant  Spirit,  habited  like  a  shepherd. 
Second  Brother.     [As  the  Spirit  approaches  them] 

O  brother,  'tis  my  father's  Shepherd,  sure. 
Elder  Brother.     [To  the  Spirit] 

Thyrsis!     How  camest  thou  here?    Hath  any  ram 

Slipped  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his  dam. 

Or  straggling  wether  the  pent  flock  forsook? 

How  couldst  thou  find  this  dark  sequestered  nook? 
Spirit. 

0  my  loved  master's  heir,  and  his  next  joy, 

1  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial  toy.     [Looking  around] 
But,  oh!  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she? 

How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company? 
Elder  Brother. 

To  tell  thee  sadly.  Shepherd,  without  blame 

Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we  came.  


Fourth  Year]  ComUS  Ho 

Spirit. 

Ay  mc  unhappy!  tlien  my  fears  are  true. 

Elder  Brother. 

What  fears,  good  Thyrsis?     Prithee  briefly  shew. 

Spirit. 

I'll  tell  ye.      'Tis  not  vain  or  fabulous. — 
Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood. 
Immured  in  cypress  shades,  a  sorcerer  dwells. 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skilled  in  all  liis  mother's  witcheries. 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cuj), 
With  many  murmurs  mixed,  whose  i)leasirifj  poisoi' 
The  visage  (piite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face. — This  evening  late 
I  sate  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank, 
And  soon  the  roar  of  Comus  and  his  rout 
Filled  all  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance. 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Arose  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  Death.     But,  oh!  ere  long 
Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honored  Lady,  your  dear  sister. 
Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and  fear; 
Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste, 
Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by  day. 
Till,  guided  by  mine  ear,  I  found  the  place 
Where  that  damned  wizard,  hid  in  sly  disguise 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew),  had  nu-t 
Already,  ere  my  best  sj)eed  could  ])revciit. 
The  aidless  innocent  Latly,  his  wished  i)rey; 
Who  gently  asked  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 


80  Draiiiaiization 


[Fourth  Year 


Supposing  liim  some  neiglibor  villager. 
Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guessed 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant;  with  that  I  sprung 
Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here; 
But  further  1  know  not. 

Second  Brother. 

O  night  and  shades. 
Alone  and  helpless!     Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  brother? 

Elder  Brother. 

Yes,  and  keep  it  still; 
Lean  on  it  safely;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me.     This  I  hold  firm : 
Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt, 
Surprised  by  unj'ust  force,  but  not  enthralled. — 
But  come,  let's  on!     I'll  draw  my  sword, 
Against  the  damned  magician,  be  he  girt 
With  Harpies,  Hydras,  all  the  monstrous  forms 
'Twixt  Africa  and  Ind.     I'll  find  him  out, 
And  force  him  to  return  his  purchase  back, 
Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul  death. 
Cursed  as  his  life. 

Spirit. 

Alas!  good  venturous  youth, 
I  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise; 
But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead. 
Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those  that  quell  the  might  of  hellish  charms. 
He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread  thy  joints. 
And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 

Elder  Brother. 

Why,  prithee.  Shepherd, 
How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so  near 
As  to  make  this  relation? 


Fourth  Year]  CoMUS  87 

Spirit. 

Listen  why. — 

A  certain  .shepherd  hid  once  h)ved  nie  weU, 

He  oft  woukl  sit  and  hearken  to  ine  sing. 

And  in  reciuital  woukl  he  ope  his  scri|) 

And  show  nie  simples  of  a  thousand  names. 

Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly  root, 

But  of  divine  effect,  he  culled  me  out. 

He  called  it  Haemony,  and  gave  it  me, 

And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovran  use 

'Gainst  all  cnckantments,  mildew  l)last,  or  damp. 

Or  gkastly  Furies'  apparition. 

And  here  it  is.     Take  it,  and  tluMi  you  may 
[Giiinc/  if  to  the  Elder  Brother] 

Boldly  assault  the  necromancer's  hall; 

Where  if  he  he,  with  dauntless  hardihood 

And  brandished  blade  rush  on  him:  break  his  glass. 

And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the  ground; 

But  seize  his  wand.     Though  he  and  his  curst  crew 

Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  menace  high, 

Or,  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan,  vomit  smoke, 

Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but  shrink. 
Eldkr  Brother. 

Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace;  I'll  follow  thee; 

And  some  good  angel  bear  a  shield  before  us! 
Curtain 

Scene  11^ 

The  Enchantment  and  Release  of  the  Lady 

The  ftetting  given  in  the  masque  for  this  scene  must  he  sim- 
plified. The  opening  in  the  voods  maj/  he  again  utili~rd 
here:  a  pedestal  or  two,  covered  to  represent  inarhle,  on  ivhirli 


88  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

are  tall  vases  of  flowers;  a  bench  or  two  covered  in  the  same  way; 
and  tioo  or  three  tables  spread  as  if  for  a  feast,  will  lend  a 
festive  touch  to  the  scene.  Soft  music  may  be  played  during 
the  dialogue.  The  Lady,  dressed  in  flowing  robes  and  seated 
in  a  large  chair  covered  in  white  to  represent  marble,  occupies 
the  center  of  the  stage.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Comus  appears 
with  his  train  of  animal-headed  followers.  They  group 
themselves  at  the  back  and  sides  of  the  stage  and  Comus 
approaches  the  Lady  and  offers  her  his  glass.  She  puts  it  by 
and  is  about  to  rise. 
Comus. 

Nay,  Lady,  sit;  if  I  but  wave  this  wand. 
Your  nerves  are  all  chained  up  in  alabaster. 
And  you  a  statue,  or  as  Daphne  was. 
Root-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 
Lady. 

Fool,  do  not  boast; 
Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal  rind 
Thou  hast  immanacled  while  Heaven  sees  good. 
Comus. 

Why  are  you  vexed.  Lady?  why  do  you  frown? 
Here  dwell  no  frowns,  nor  anger;  from  these  gates 
Sorrow  flies  far.     See,  here  be  all  the  pleasures 
That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthful  thoughts. 
And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  here. 
That  flames  and  dances  in  his  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixed. 
Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  yourself. 
You,  that  have  been  all  day  without  repast 
And  timely  rest  have  wanted.     Why  refuse 
Refreshment  after  toil?  One  taste,  fair  virgin!  [Pleadingly] 
This  will  restore  all  soon. 
He  offers  her  the  glass  again. 


Fourth  Year]  CoillUS  89 

Lady. 

'Twill  not,  false  traitor! 
'Twill  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty 
Tliat  thou  hast  l)anished  from  thy  tongue  with  lies. 
Was  this  the  cottage  and  the  safe  abode 
Thou  told'st  me  of?     What  grim  aspects  are  these, 
These  ugly-headed  monsters?     Mercy  guard  me! 
Hence  with  thy  brewed  enchantments,  foul  deceiver! 
Good  men — 'tis  they  alone  can  gi\'e  good  things. 
And  that  which  is  not  good  is  not  delicious 
To  a  well-governed  and  wise  ai>petite. 

Com  us. 

O  foolishness  of  men!  tluit  lend  their  ears 

In  praise  of  lean  and  sallow  Abstinence! 

Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth 

With  such  a  full  and  unwithdrawing  hand, 

Covering  the  earth  with  odors,  fruits,  and  flocks. 

Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable. 

But  all  to  please  and  sate  the  curious  taste 

Of  her  dear  children.     Why,  if  all  the  world 

Should,  in  a  pet  of  temperance,  feed  on  pulse. 

Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear  ])ut  frieze. 

The  All-giver  would  be  untlianked,  would  be  uiii)r;iisiMl. 

List,  Lady;  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cozened 

With  that  same  vaunted  name.  Virginity. 

Beauty  is  Nature's  coin;  must  not  be  hoarded; 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 

It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languished  head. 

Beauty  is  Nature's  brag,  and  must  be  shown 

In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities. 

Think  Lady,  be  advised;  you  are  but  young  yet.  ^ 

Lady.  , 

Impostor!  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 


90  Dramatization  [Fourth  Year 

With  her  abuudiince.     Slic,  good  cutcrcss. 

Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good. 

That  live  according  to  her  sober  hiw.s, 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  Temperance. 

Shall  I  go  on,  or  have  I  said  enough? 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced. 

Yet,  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 

Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rapt  spirits 

To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence 

That  dumb  things  would  be  moved  to  sympathize, 

And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her  nerves,  and  shake. 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  reared  so  high, 

Were  shattered  into  heaps  o'er  thy  false  head. 

CoMUS.     [Aside] 

She  fables  not.     I  feel  tlwit  I  do  fear 

Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power; 

I  must  dissemble,  and  try  her  yet  more  strongly. 

[To  the  Lady] 
This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foundation. 
But  this  will  cure  all  straight;  one  sip  of  this 
Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreams.     Be  wise,  and  taste. 

The  Brothers  rush  in  icith  strords  drawn,  wrest  his  glass 
Old  of  his  hand,  and  break  it  against  the  ground;  his  rout 
make  sign  of  resistance,  but  are  all  driven  in.  The  Attend- 
ant Spirit  comes  in.  The  Lady  mean  while  remains  motionless. 

Spirit. 

What!  have  you  let  the  false  enchanter  scape? 

O  ye  mistook;  ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand. 

And  bound  him  fast.     Without  his  rod  reversed. 

And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power,  i 

We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 

In  stony  fetters  fixed  and  motionless. 


Pourth  Year]  CoMUS  9l 

Yet  stay:  be  not  disturbed;  now  I  bethink  me. 
Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  })e  used. 

There  is  a  gentle  Nympli  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn  stream: 
Sabrina  is  her  name:  a  virgin  pure; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  scepter  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood. 
And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change. 
Now,  Goddess  of  the  river,  she  retains 
Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  can  unlock 
The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numbing  spell. 
If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song; 
For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 
To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself. 
In  hard-besetting  need.     This  will  I  try. 
And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring  verse. 

Song 
Sabrina  fair. 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave. 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  hiiiting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen  for  dear  honor's  sake. 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake. 

Listen  and  save! 

By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance- 
Rise,  rise,  artd  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-parcn  bed. 


92  Dramatization  [Fourth  Tear 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen,  and  save! 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  song  Sabrina  appears,  dressed  in 
clinging  robes  of  a  blue-green  hue,  adorned  as  far  as  pos- 
sible to  suggest  her  river  home.     She  sings  the  following : 

Song 
By  the  rushy -fringed  bank. 
Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank. 

My  .sliding  chariot  stays. 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azurn  sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green. 

That  in  the  channel  strays; 
Whilst  from  off  the  rcaiers  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
.  O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head. 
That  bends  not  as  I  tread. 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request 
I  am-  here. 
Spirit. 

Goddess  dear. 
We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed 
Through  the  force  and  through  the  wile 
Of  unblessed  enchanter  vile. 
Sabrina. 

Shepherd,  'tis  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity. 
Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me. 
Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I  have  kept  of  precious  cure; 


Fourth  Year] 


Comus  93 


Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip 
Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  hp: 
Next  this  marble  venomed  seat, 
Smeared  with  gums  of  ghitinous  heat, 
I  touch  with  chaste  pahns  moist  and  cold. 
Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold; 
And  I  must  haste  ere  morning  hour 
To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  bower. 

She  vanishes  and  the  Lady  rises,  freed  from  the  spell. 
Spirit.     [To  the  Lady  and  her  Brothers] 
Come,  let  us  haste  to  Ludlow  now, 
Where  you  must  each  fulfill  your  v^ow. 
I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide; 
And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  Father's  residence. 
Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 
His  wished  presence,  and  beside 
All  the  swains  that  there  abide 
With  jigs  and  rural  dance  resort. 
We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport. 

Come,  Lady;  while  II(>aven  UmkIs  us  grace, 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  jjlacc. 
Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 

They  all  resume  their  journey. 
Curtain 

Scene  V 

The  Welcome  at  Lttdlow  Castle 

The  scene  presents  the  grounds  of  Ludlow  Castle,  .show- 
ing many  signs  of  the  festive  occasion.     A  group  of  country  folk 


94  Dramatization 


[Fourth  Year 


in  (jmj  holiday  dress,  arc  about  to  form  for  a  country  dance,  as 
the  curtain  rises.  At  one  side  sit  in  state  the  Earl  of  Bridge- 
water  and  his  wife.  The  figures  of  a  country  dance  are  first 
executed  with  great  merriment.  This  may  be  made  as  elabo- 
rate as  desired.  As  the  dance  is  about  to  end,  the  Spirit, 
leading  the  Lady  and  her  two  Brothers,  enters.  He  leaves 
the  dancers  aside  and  presents  the  children  to  their  Mother 
and  f  ather  as  he  sings  the  following: 


Spirit. 


Song 

Back,  shepherds,  back!  enough  your  play 

Till  next  sun-shine  holiday. 

Here  be,  without  duck  or  nod. 

Other  trippings  to  be  trod 

Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 

As  Mercury  did  first  devise 

With  the  mincing  Dryades 

On  the  lawns  and  on  the  leas. 

[He  presents  the  children  to  their  Father  and  Mother] 

Noble  Lord  and  Lady  bright, 
I  have  brought  ye  new  delight. 
Here  behold  so  goodly  grown 
Three  fair  branches  of  your  own. 
Heaven  hath  timely  tried  their  youth. 
Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth. 
And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays 
With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise. 
To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O'er  sensual  folly  and  intemperance. 


Fourth  Year] 


Comus  95 


At  the  conclusion  of  the  singing,  after  appropriate 
greetings,  another  dance  is  given  in  which  the  Lady  and 
the  Brothers  join.  As  it  ends,  the  Spirit  steps  forward 
and  speaks  the  Epilogue. 

Epilogue 

To  the  ocean  now  I  fly. 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  tiie  sky. 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air. 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells. 
And  west-winds  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedarn  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done: 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run. 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end. 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend. 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 
Mortals,  that  would  follow  me. 
Love  Virtue;  she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  cliime; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 
Curtain 


V 


09Ha  NVS 

Advaan 


